Only Eyes to See
by ChristineX
Summary: COMPLETE! Sarah falls into Middle Earth and ends up captured by the Lord of the Nazgul. Unfortunately, it just gets worse from there. Rated M for the usual sex and violence. Cover art in my profile!
1. Into the Abyss

Well, I've been kicking this idea for a while now, so I figured...what the heck! I do plan to update regularly, but since I'm writing a bunch of other stuff at the same time it may be more than a week sometimes between updates. Just wanted to let you know so you wouldn't worry if there are gaps at some point.

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One: Into the Abyss

You know, if my friend Mike hadn't been such an über-_Lord of the Rings_ geek, none of this would have happened. While I had read the books when I was in high school and really enjoyed the movies, it's not as if I went out of my way to have much to do with LOTR. But then he got this crazy idea to have a _Lord of the Rings_-themed party for his twenty-first birthday, and that's how this all got started.

Bit of background on Mike. I've known him since eighth grade, and he was always that scarily brilliant kid that you knew was just going to end up at Harvard or MIT or something like that. We'd always been just friends, not boyfriend and girlfriend, although he had rescued me to take me to the senior prom when my date came down with tonsillitis, of all things. He was vaguely appealing in a scruffy sort of way, but not really my type, and I guess I wasn't his, either, since he'd never made a move on me. To be perfectly honest, he didn't seem that into girls. Not gay -- I'd asked him about that point-blank once, and he'd just shrugged and said, "Time enough for girlfriends later." Which was true, although not exactly the norm for a teenage guy.

He had decided to go to Caltech because he didn't want to give up the Southern California weather, or the cushy English Tudor–style house he inherited from his paternal grandfather, seeing as Mike was the only grandchild and the family was San Marino old money. My family did all right -- we wouldn't have been living in San Marino otherwise -- but we were definitely not in the same league as the Westerfields. My father was a lawyer and my mother taught high school English, and neither one of them had been exactly thrilled when I announced during my senior year of high school that I wanted to get a degree in fashion and go to work as a costume designer. Not exactly the most stable career, I know, but I'd been sketching fancy dresses and mooning over fabric for too long for them not to realize what direction I wanted to go.

So I went to the Fashion Institute in downtown L.A., and I was just starting out my senior year when Mike got the idea for The Party. At that point he decided that a LOTR party was the way to go, simply because he apparently shared the same birthday as Bilbo and Frodo (September 22nd, for those of you who care), and what better way to celebrate finally being able to buy alcohol legally than to force all your friends to dress up in Middle Earth garb?

I told him I didn't think it was such a great idea. After all, it wasn't as if we were all costumers or something. I mean, I knew I wouldn't have a problem -- and I was already thinking that copying one of Arwen's gowns would make a good project for my Advanced Sewing class -- but the rest of Mike's group was composed of either more Caltech geeks, none of whom could sew their way out of a paper bag, or friends from high school who had stuck around to go to Pasadena City College or Citrus before moving on to the wide world of a four-year university and who were similarly challenged when it came to dealing with a sewing machine.

"Well, you could help, couldn't you, Sarah?" he asked me. His brown eyes were guileless.

Typical. Mike seemed to think that just because I wasn't busting my brains with calculus or theoretical physics or whatever arcane stuff he was taking over at Caltech I must have unlimited time on my hands. "Sure, I'll just squeeze in sewing T-tunics and bodices for thirty people in between my 20-unit course load."

But that, unfortunately, was pretty much what I ended up doing. Mike had this way of convincing you that going along with his ideas was the most logical thing in the world. If he weren't shooting for a doctorate in physics I'm sure he could have had a great career in politics. At any rate, since it was the beginning of the term I wasn't quite as busy as I would be say, in November or early December, so I took the measurements people gave me and the pile of fabric I'd bought in downtown L.A.'s fashion district with funds Mike provided and churned out enough simple costumes -- with some help from my mother, who knew her way around a sewing machine, thank God -- that pretty much everyone who was coming would have something to wear.

I'd lucked out and found a length of bluish violet silk velvet that would work for a copy of one of Arwen's gowns, along with some silver trim that had to have come straight from India. In the evenings I put my feet up in front of the TV and worked on beading the sleeves, and prayed it wouldn't be too nightmarishly hot on the day of the party. Late September in Southern California tended to be warm, but if you were lucky you'd get just a mildly hot day and not one of those Santa Ana–inspired blasts that felt as if you were walking into an oven every time you opened the door.

But my luck held. Cool breezes came from off the ocean the day of the party, and I was able to finally put on the gown and not feel as if I were going to die of heat prostration. The dress had turned out really well, and luckily my coloring was similar enough to Liv Tyler's that the soft purplish-blue velvet and silver beaded trim looked good on me as well. Other than that, I didn't really resemble her very much, but at least I'd let my hair grow the last few years of college, and it now hung almost to my waist. Mike had found a place online that sold Elvish ear tips, and I stuck them on grimly, hoping all the while that the damn spirit gum wouldn't give out halfway through the party.

Driving with those enormous gossamer sleeves was no fun, but at least I didn't have a stick shift. That would have been a real party. Since I'd helped Mike out so much he'd reserved a spot in his driveway for me -- good thing, as I was running a little late, and the party was already in full swing by the time I got there, the narrow tree-lined street crowded with cars. Probably Mike's neighbors would be less than thrilled, but at least this wasn't the sort of party that would be blaring loud rap or death metal or something else guaranteed to disturb the peace of the upper-crusty neighborhood.

Mike's house was vaguely hobbit-y anyway, with its English country styling and the antiques he'd inherited from his grandfather. But he'd done it up really nicely, with banners that looked as if he'd taken them straight out of the movies, and some fun props lying around -- replica swords, picture frames, even a whole Middle Earth chess set. I think he must have bought out the entire LOTR stock from one of those catalogs that sells pricey reproductions. The big tree in the backyard was hung with lights, and copper torches burned at each corner of the deck.

"Nice," I said, when I had finally located Mike. He was in the kitchen, pulling a tray of mushroom turnovers from Trader Joe's out of the oven.

"Thanks," he said, without looking up. Then he straightened, and stared at me for a moment. "Wow -- you look -- " He hesitated for a second, then finished awkwardly, "Um...really good."

Since I'd often thought I probably could have dyed my hair blue without Mike noticing, that was high praise. But to call him on it would probably just embarrass him even more, so I just shrugged and gave him a noncommittal "thanks" in reply. Then, to defuse the tension, I asked, "Drinks?"

"Out back. The table under the tree has a bunch of stuff sitting in ice."

"Great." And I went back outside, intercepting thanks from a couple of people for their costumes as I did so. Truthfully, everyone did look great, and looking around me I thought it really had been worth the hours of work involved. Besides, now everyone had something to wear for Halloween or to go to the Renaissance Faire, if they were so inclined.

The next couple of hours passed uneventfully enough. Full dark finally fell, and the backyard looked even more otherworldly under the light of the torches and a gibbous moon. I'd never been much of a drinker -- at a full six months older than Mike, I'd enjoyed the rights of legal drinking age much longer than he had -- and I stuck with hard cider, partly because it wouldn't get me as hammered as drinking wine would, and partly because if someone bumped me and I spilled on my silk velvet it wouldn't be the end of the world.

But I couldn't say the same for everyone else. Some of those Caltech geeks could drink, let me tell you. I don't know if it was because they were trying to make up for time lost in high school or what, but a couple of them were starting to get out of control, and I had to fend off some unwelcome advances before I decided maybe it would be a good idea to hang out in the living room for a while. Most of the wild partying seemed to be going on in the backyard anyway.

I turned, and had started to move back toward the house when someone grabbed my arm. Annoyed, I glanced over my shoulder to see Drew Cummings, one of the group that seemed to hang out at Mike's house on a regular basis -- probably because Mike would always pick up the tab for the pizza and beer. I'd always thought Drew was a jerk and had told Mike so, but he'd just sort of shrugged and said I didn't like Drew because he was always trying to get into my pants.

He had a point.

"Do you mind?" I asked icily. "That's silk chiffon you're sweating on."

Drew stared at me blankly for a minute, then looked down at my sleeve and finally withdrew his hand. "You're not leaving, are you?"

For a second I wanted to snap back that I was just going to take a pee, but that would have been rude and not even the truth. Instead, I just said, "I'm going inside. I want to sit down for a while."

"That sounds great!" He took another swig of beer, and I cursed mentally. Great -- the last thing I needed was this dork following me around like a drunk puppy dog.

I looked around, hoping I could find Mike and have him distract his loser friend, but of course Mike was nowhere in sight. It figured. I'd have to get rid of this twit myself. My half-empty cup of cider gave me the inspiration. "OK, Drew -- but I'm almost out of cider. Could you go refill this for me?" I handed him the plastic cup, which he took with an air of inebriated solemnity.

"Absolutively," he said earnestly, as if I'd just given him the quest to throw the Ring into Mount Doom. But at least he turned and headed off in the direction of the drinks table, thus giving me the escape I needed.

Of course, if he thought I was going inside, then I had to do just the opposite. The side yard had also been fitted up with tables and chairs, and I hadn't spent much time there so far this evening. It would probably take Drew quite a while to figure out where I had gone -- if he didn't get distracted by some other female who was a little less elusive. Well, one could hope, anyway.

Even with all the lanterns in the backyard, it still wasn't that well-lit. I picked up my long skirts and started moving quickly toward the side yard, and I suppose it was my haste that was my downfall. My foot caught on something, and before I could recover my balance I fell forward. I put my hands out to catch myself, but instead of the trampled grass of Mike's backyard I felt -- nothing. My stomach seemed to drop out of me, the way it felt the one and only time I went on "Supreme Scream" at Knott's Berry farm -- you know, one of those rides where they take you way up on a tower and drop you off. Even as I began to wonder whether I'd hit my head and was hallucinating, I finally felt the ground come up beneath me. But what scraped my hands was some low-lying bushes, not Mike's well-manicured lawn. Shocked, I hit the ground hard, feeling the wind knocked out of me, and the sudden bite of cold air against my face.

For several long seconds I lay flat, gasping for breath, wondering what could have happened. Maybe there was a hedge or something I hadn't seen...

Finally I pushed myself upward, not even wanting to glance down and see what damage I might have done to my dress. And the second I stood upright and took a good look around, I realized that a torn gown was most likely the least of my problems.

Wherever I was, it sure as hell wasn't Mike's backyard.

I stood on the edge of a plain of yellowed grass, broken here and there by some gorse-like bushes -- one of which had apparently broken my fall. Off to my left I could see what looked like the outlying edges of a huge forest, and rising beyond that was a grim-looking mountain range. Of course I had no way of knowing what time it was, but something in the quality of light told me that it was late afternoon, edging toward evening. Clouds covered most of the sky, but it seemed as if the sun was dipping down toward my left, which meant the mountains and forest lay to the west. And it was cold. Not just the cool night of a Southern California autumn, but really cold. I wasn't a skier like a lot of my friends, but I'd been up in the mountains a few times, and that's what the chilly air reminded me of. It couldn't have been more than 40 degrees, probably -- definitely not the sort of weather my silk velvet gown and its sheer sleeves had been designed for. And it seemed as if the longer I stood there and thought about how cold it was, the worse it got.

Not knowing what else to do, I started walking. At least I thought that might help to warm me up a bit. As I trudged through the dry grass, part of my mind was screaming at me to make some sense out of what had happened, but I couldn't. Randomly I wondered whether Drew really had gotten me that drink after all and then tipped a little date-rape drug into it, just for kicks. But if that were the case, then why would I have been left here by myself? And anyway, I didn't feel like I'd been drugged. If anything, I felt overly sharp and alert, as if the cold had burned away the slight buzz the cider I had been drinking had given me. Besides, I'd lived in Southern California all my life, and the landscape around me didn't remotely resemble anything I'd ever seen before.

The day grew darker, and I kept walking, thankful that the Arwen costume had at least called for flats and not something with heels. Finally I'd looked down at my dress to see how badly I had banged myself up, and the damage wasn't quite as bad as I had feared. The main portion of my gown looked more or less intact, although there was a nasty smudge near the hem. One of the sleeves was pretty much a loss, though -- the thorns of that gorse bush or whatever it was had caught in the delicate fabric, shredding it along one edge. I sighed and told myself that I had extra fabric at home and could always make a new sleeve at some point.

If I ever got out of here. If I even was able to find out where "here" was.

I walked with my arms crossed against my chest, desperately trying to keep in as much warmth as I could. If it was this cold during daylight hours, I didn't even want to think what it was going to be like once the sun went down fully. Besides, I couldn't keep walking after dark. Even now, as the light began to fail, I stumbled occasionally, my little embroidered sari shoes catching roots and pebbles. I wished I'd had the sense to put some of those gel insoles in the shoes. At the time I had figured, why bother? I was only going to be wearing them for a few hours, after all.

A few hours. Right. I wanted to laugh at myself but was afraid the laughter would turn to tears. I didn't want to admit it, but somewhere during my walk I had passed from worry to fear to outright terror. Where the hell was I? Was I doomed to trudge through this freezing, desolate place forever?

As if in answer to my unspoken questions, I suddenly heard the whinny of a horse from somewhere up ahead. A horse? Well, that settled it. Wherever I was, it was obviously a long ways away from San Marino. But horses probably meant people nearby, and at this point I was so weary of my isolation I didn't really stop to think about who might be up there. Whoever they were, maybe they could help me, or at least tell me where I was.

Given a sudden purpose, I strode forward, gathering up the awkward velvet skirts of my gown so that I wouldn't trip over them on the uneven ground. Through the gathering dusk I spied what looked like a stand of scrubby trees about a hundred feet ahead. And under those trees I thought I saw the movement of a large black horse. I couldn't make out much more than that, but at least the sight of the horse told me that I hadn't imagined its whinny.

Heart pounding, I all but ran to the trees, almost losing a shoe in the process. With a curse I paused long enough to shove the annoying slipper back onto my foot, then continued on my way. As I drew closer I could see the vague shapes of several more horses -- it looked as if there were five of them altogether. And once I was level with the first animal I spotted a saddle and bridle, so I knew they had to belong to someone and weren't just straying wild. But where were their riders?

I paused for a moment, looking around. It seemed a likely place to make camp for the night -- the trees would offer some shelter, and somewhere beyond the little grove I heard the sound of water. Maybe the horses' owners had gone down to the stream to refill their canteens or something like that.

"Hello?" I called out.

One of the horses swiveled its ears at me, but other than that I saw no response to my shaky call.

I tried again. "Anyone there?"

The darkness behind the trees seemed to take shape as five shadows moved out from between them. At first I couldn't seem to focus on what I was looking at, until the tallest shadow stepped out in front of the others, and a chance gleam of dying sunlight caught on the heavy hooded robes he wore. I stared at him for a long moment, my brain apparently unwilling to process what it was seeing. Finally I realized what I was looking at, and the knowledge was enough to run an icy finger of terror up my spine.

The shadowy figure was a Ringwraith.


	2. The Face of Evil

Thanks for the reviews, everyone! (And having faith that this wouldn't be a standard M-S.) I got inspired, so Chapter 2 went up pretty quickly (at the expense of my other fics, unfortunately!).

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Two: The Face of Evil

For one paralyzed moment I just stood there, staring at him wide-eyed, like the proverbial deer in the headlights. A wild thought crossed my mind that maybe someone had tampered with my drink after all, only not with a date-rape drug like Rohypnol but something hallucinogenic such as LSD or peyote. What else could explain the horrific vision in front of me?

Perhaps my presence there had startled him just as much as he had startled me. I had no way of knowing, of course, but he didn't make an immediate move, and I figured that gave me my only chance. Grabbing two handfuls of bulky skirts, I turned and ran back the way I came, kicking off the useless slippers I wore after one threatened to slide off completely, almost tripping me up. Luckily my feet were still somewhat hardened from a summer of roaming around barefoot or in sandals. It was much easier to run that way, even though the ground underfoot was rocky and treacherous.

From behind me I could hear him cry out in words I couldn't understand, although they didn't sound much like the harsh speech of Mordor I'd heard in the films. But the sound was chilling nonetheless, especially when I heard other voices join his, followed soon after by the pounding of hoof beats.

What movies or books don't really get across is how frightening that sound can be, especially when you know it's generated by evil beings whose sole purpose at the moment is to catch up with you. But fear gave me extra speed, and I used that and the darkness to dodge off to one side, hoping that my feint might put them off the scent.

I should have known better. After all, these were Ringwraiths, not the local polo club out for an evening ride. The cold air seared my throat as I ran, and I coughed even as the wind whipped tears into my eyes. My feet were a mass of bruises. It was almost a relief when a gloved hand reached out of the darkness and plucked me neatly off my feet, depositing me like a sack of potatoes on the saddle bow in front of the lead rider.

Immediately he slowed, and the other four Ringwraiths came up to surround us, their shapes little more than a deeper shade of black against the rapidly falling night. A heavy hand grasped the hair at the back of my head and jerked my face up. I could make out nothing but the dark hood falling over his face -- but I knew even if the light had been clearer there still would be nothing to see.

He spoke, but I couldn't understand the words. Again, they didn't sound like the Black Speech (if that's what it was called -- trying to remember details like that in such a stressful situation wasn't all that easy), but it sure as hell wasn't English, or the common language they used in Middle Earth. Then again, how would I know what that sounded like?

With a frightened squeak, I gasped, "I don't know what you're saying."

A pause. Then a man's voice, deep and rough, sounding nothing like the thin, evil tones of the Ringwraiths in the films. "How is it you do not know your own tongue, she-elf?"

What the hell? Then I remembered the stupid ear tips that had been part of my costume. I hadn't thought they looked all that convincing, but -- "They're fake!" I protested, and reached up to pull one off, just to show him.

It wouldn't come off. And it wasn't just that I had done a killer job of spirit-gluing the damn thing down. I mean, it felt as if it were attached, like it was part of me. As if somehow, when I had been transported here, the disguise had become reality.

A wave of cold washed over me. What exactly was going on? This could still be some sort of horrible fever dream, but why the hell would I have imagined a detail like _that_?

With a horrible patience, the Ringwraith waited. I guess when you're immortal you have all the time in the world. Maybe he thought I was crazy or something. I didn't even know if it was the head rider who had captured me -- not that it really mattered. There were four more to take over the job if I somehow managed to slide off this Ringwraith's horse.

Finally I muttered, "I don't speak Elvish."

Another silence. Then he uttered a few more words, this time as harsh and ugly as the language I'd heard in _Fellowship_ when Gandalf read the inscription on the inside of the ring out loud. Obviously he'd been giving instructions to the rest of the crew, since they all turned their horses and headed back in the direction of the little copse where I'd first come upon them. Once we were there, he lifted me as if I weighed nothing and slid off his horse, then set me down on the ground. The other Ringwraiths dismounted as well, and stood around me, watching like silent shadows.

This whole thing was giving me the creeps. Were they going to kill me? Question me? I suppose I presented enough of an anomaly that they wouldn't kill me outright, not without trying to get some information out of me first. Probably there weren't a lot of Elvish maidens wandering the wilds of Gondor or Rohan or wherever the hell I was.

"Who are you?" the Ringwraith asked.

"Sarah Monaghan," I replied. After all, there probably wasn't much he could do with that particular piece of information.

"That is not an Elvish name," he said.

"I'm not -- " I began, then gave up. I mean, I couldn't really blame him. If it walks like a duck, quacks like a duck, and has pointy ears like an elf, well...you do the math. Boldly, I asked, "Who are _you_? Do you normally go wandering around the wilderness accosting lone females?"

Although he said nothing, I gathered from his silence he was somewhat taken aback. Probably it had been a while since someone had gotten in his face like that...if ever. My knowledge of the Ringwraiths was sketchy at best, but I did remember that they had once been kings who had fallen into evil, and that they probably weren't the types to have random women taking the verbal offensive against them.

"I?" he replied at last. "I am Lord of the Nazgûl, King of Angmar, she-elf. You would do well to consider who it is to whom you speak."

Well, that confirmed it. But although I was certainly still afraid, somehow it wasn't the paralyzing fear the Nazgûl were supposed to cause in mortals. Also, deep down I kept wondering whether this wasn't just some fantastic dream, some drug-induced hallucination influenced by Mike's party, not to mention all those books full of images from the films that I'd spent a lot of time studying the past few weeks as I prepped the costumes for the party. Speaking of which, it was hard to tell in the darkness, but somehow these Ringwraiths didn't look as tattered and worn as the ones in the films. Their black robes looked almost new. And I'd noticed that the Lord of the Nazgûl had grasped me with a gloved hand, but it had been a leather glove, not a spiky mail one like the gauntlet in the film.

If I were simply dreaming all this, wouldn't it have been easier for me to just re-use images from the movies? Why all the different details?

I shivered then, and it wasn't just from the increasingly chilly night air.

"Good," he said, even though I hadn't made him any reply. Maybe he was just pleased with my apparent meekness once I had learned who he really was. "What are you doing here, so far from your people?"

"I don't even know where 'here' is," I protested. "One minute I was at a party, and the next -- boom! -- dropped into Middle Earth."

The blackness within the hood seemed to stare at me for a moment, and then I heard those same harsh guttural syllables passed among the other Ringwraiths as they apparently began to discuss my situation. That sound almost frightened me more than the actual presence of the Nazgûl -- it was the verbal equivalent of nails scraping down a blackboard.

But then the Lord of the Nazgûl turned toward me, pushing back his hood. Why, I had no idea -- perhaps he had meant to frighten me with the dark empty space above the broad cloak-covered shoulders. That's what I had expected to see, what the books had described, and the films had illustrated so clearly. Or possibly the horrible gaunt face Frodo had encountered when he put on the Ring.

That's not what met my gaze, however. Despite the darkness -- now beginning to be relieved by a gibbous moon rising off to my right -- I saw the face of a man, somewhere in late middle age, with proud hawkish features and the coldest gray eyes I had ever seen. His dark hair was streaked with silver and held back from his forehead by a white metal band set with a cloudy gray stone in the center.

I stared at him for a long moment, as his eyes caught mine and held them. Then the significance of that stare seemed to get through to him, and he frowned.

"What do you see?" he asked, and stepped forward, grasping me by the shoulders. I could feel the chill of his touch right through the leather gloves he wore, the cruel strength in those fingers.

"I see _you_," I gasped. "How can I do that? You're supposed to be invisible...or worse."

"You see me?" he demanded. "How is this possible?"

"I don't know!" I burst out. "But I do -- your eyes are gray, and there's a gray stone in that silver band or circlet or whatever you call it that you're wearing. And there's a scar on your right cheek," I added, as the moonlight strengthened and revealed more details of his features.

Mouth compressed to a thin line, he released me and gestured for the other Ringwraiths to step forward and throw back their hoods. One by one their faces were revealed. The Lord of the Nazgûl looked to be the oldest, but I would say they all appeared to be somewhere in their forties or fifties -- or the Middle Earth equivalent. Mike had once shocked me by telling me that Aragorn was supposed to be in his eighties or something like that during the events in the books, because apparently men with Numenorean blood lived longer than regular mortals. So I had no idea how old any of these men had been when they became wraiths, but that's about what they looked like. Vigorous and strong, absolutely, but still men, not boys.

They could have been kin, with their dark hair and pale eyes and proud-boned faces. Maybe they were, in some convoluted fashion. I didn't know anything about them or their origins, save that they had been kings once before Sauron turned them. Once upon a time Mike had tried to get me to read _The Silmarillion_ "to get more back story," but after about ten pages I just gave up. The thing was impenetrable. Mike had sworn that it got better and that there was some pretty seamy stuff in there -- he used to call it "Elves behaving badly" -- but to me it just wasn't worth the effort. Of course, I was regretting that decision now, since maybe I could have picked up some intelligence that would have helped me in my current situation, but there wasn't much I could do about it at the moment.

"Do you see all of them?" the Lord of the Nazgûl asked.

"Yes," I replied. I had the crazy impulse to add, _And you're not a bad-looking bunch, either_, but decided that probably wasn't such a great idea. The guy seemed to have lost most of his sense of humor over the thousands of years he'd been a wraith. Not that I could blame him.

He muttered something under his breath, but I couldn't understand what he said. It didn't sound like the Black Speech, and it didn't sound much like Elvish. Maybe it was the Numenorean he'd spoken when he was a king. I suppose it didn't matter how many languages he knew -- it wasn't as if I could understand any of them, except of course the common tongue we'd been using. Thank God for that at least. Otherwise, I would have been reduced to sign language or something.

Then his gaze shifted back to me, and something cold and appraising in those gunmetal eyes made another shiver run down my spine. "Come," he said, and grasped my wrist. Without so much as a by-your-leave he boosted me back up into the saddle of his horse, and then swung his leg over the animal and settled in behind me.

I knew better than to protest; besides, in that position he shielded me from some of the worst of the freezing night air. Shifting my weight slightly, I moved in closer to him, trying to find a spot where the pommel of the saddle didn't dig into my backside. Without comment he lifted the edge of his cloak and wrapped it around me. It was thick, heavy wool, and I burrowed into it, not caring whose it might be. At that point, I was worried more about catching cold than any possible ill-will coming from him. For some reason, I didn't think he meant me any harm -- at least, not at the moment.

The other Ringwraiths mounted as well, and the group of horses burst out of the little grove of trees, pounding away to the south. At least, I figured it must be to the south -- the rising moon lay to my left as the shadowy riders hastened across the plains. I was increasingly glad of the cloak the Lord of the Nazgûl had wrapped around me, since the air felt even colder now that we were moving with such haste.

I had been horseback riding a few times in my life, but of course I'd never ridden like this before, perched in front of someone while desperately trying to ignore how quickly the ground was passing beneath me. Those horses of Rohan had huge strides and seemed tireless -- I had no way of counting how much time had passed or how many miles we had covered, but our journey seemed to go on forever. I burrowed my head into my captor's cloak and squeezed my eyes shut against the freezing air, telling myself that the tears I could feel leaking from the corners of my eyes had only been brought on by the wind. As close as I was to the Lord of the Nazgûl, I could feel no warmth emanating from his body; it was only the heavy cloak that kept me from being chilled to the bone.

Undead wraith. That's what the books and the films said he was. But he looked nothing like the ghoulish figure I'd seen in _Fellowship_. And apparently he'd been as startled by what I saw as I was myself. It seemed that I could see him as he had been long ago, before he fell to Sauron's power. How many thousands of years had that been? Way too many for anyone to still look that good, that was for sure. But that didn't change the fact that the arms that held me securely in place and kept me from falling didn't belong to a mortal man, or that I could sense no trace of a heartbeat or living breath from the being who forced us to continue on into the night, until at last the faintest sliver of a reddish glow off to my left signaled the coming of dawn.

With the growing light the Lord of the Nazgûl slowed his horse, and the other riders fell in behind him. We had left the plains behind and now rode through an arid and rocky canyon that was broken only by a few scrubby-looking bushes. The landscape looked a little like some of the box canyons of Southern California I'd hiked through in my Girl Scout days, although I doubted I'd see the sprawl of the San Gabriel Valley ahead of me once we were clear of the ravine. Also, my Middle Earth geography was hazy at best, but if we were traveling south, and the terrain was becoming increasingly barren, then that probably meant only one thing.

I didn't have a chance to ask my question until the leader of the Ringwraiths called a halt to let the horses rest. It turned out that at the base of the canyon a thin stream of dark water flowed, and the animals went to it gratefully, whuffling and snorting as they drank. The riders removed their horses' saddles and bridles, then set up makeshift mangers full of some sort of grain for their mounts. In the books Tolkien had made it sound as if the Ringwraiths treated their animals brutally, and maybe they would if circumstances called for it, but it seemed I saw almost a rough affection as they tended to the horses and made sure they were comfortable. Of course, the wraiths would have a tougher time moving about the countryside if they were deprived of their mounts. No use abusing them for no reason, I supposed.

As for myself, I felt starved and cold and bone-achingly tired. I've pulled all-nighters prepping for finals or finishing a class project, but there's something about being jolted across the landscape of Middle Earth on the back of a horse that can really do a number on you. I stumbled on the rocky ground, feeling the bite of the stones through the shredded tights I wore. The Lord of the Nazgûl gripped my arm, holding me upright so that I wouldn't fall.

"Thank you," I said automatically. Then I paused, looking up at him. The harsh face was unreadable in the gray predawn light. I doubted it was any real solicitude that had prompted him to keep me from pitching face-first into the rocky soil. Most likely he just hadn't wanted to deal with any injuries that would result from my clumsiness. His wasn't the sort of face to reveal any confidences, but I knew if I didn't ask I'd just drive myself crazy with speculation. Hoping my tone was casual enough, I asked, "Just where are you taking me?"

One eyebrow lifted. "To Mordor, of course."

Damn. I'd been afraid that was what he would say...


	3. Rough Journey

I'm so glad people are enjoying this! I have to say, I'm having a lot of fun writing it.

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Three: Rough Journey

The next two days were the most miserable of my life. There's not much point going into excruciating detail here, but let's just say that in the books they never really go into the gory details of what's it like to traipse around Middle Earth with no showers or bathroom facilities. What made my situation even worse was that I had fallen in with a group of undead beings who never felt the call of nature, so even getting a chance to go behind a convenient rock to take care of business was difficult. My beautiful velvet dress became filthy and sweaty. By the morning of the third day, when we had finally crossed the rocky broken plain that lay before the gates of Mordor, I felt I could have cheerfully axe-murdered Mother Teresa in exchange for a hot shower and a change of clothes.

But finally we were there, and the landscape in front of me looked very close to what I had imagined when I first read the books and later what had been portrayed in the films. The sky was heavy with dark clouds, made even darker by whatever volcanic ash and fumes continually spewed out of Mount Doom. On either side of us loomed high, sheer cliffs of dark gray stone, while directly ahead stood the Black Gate, a massive structure of iron-barred wood, flanked by two narrow towers whose windows glowed red. Even if I hadn't known this was the entrance to Mordor, I could have seen right away that this was not a good place to be. You might as well have hung a sign over the gates that said "This way to the evil overlord!"

Although the Lord of the Nazgûl made no signal that I could see, the huge gates began to slowly creak open before us. From far above, on the ramparts that watched over the narrow valley, I heard rough cries and shouts. Probably orcs, I thought, and shivered a bit. What would they look like in real life? Had Peter Jackson gotten it right, or would they be even more gruesome than the creatures I'd seen on-screen?

The group of us rode in. Almost immediately after the last rider had cleared the gates, the massive wooden structures began to swing shut once more. I guessed they weren't taking any chances, although I couldn't imagine anyone trying to sneak in -- Frodo and Sam's abortive attempt to do so notwithstanding. No, this was definitely the sort of place any sane person would try to stay as far away from as possible.

Even the air smelled wrong. It had a heavy, acrid odor about it that reminded me of the times when Southern California was hit with wildfires, and the atmosphere would be thick with ash. But that was a cleaner smell than this -- underlying the first gritty scent of smoke were foul traces of sulphur and something else I couldn't quite identify. Whatever it was, it caught in the back of my throat and I coughed, turning my head inward toward the Lord of the Nazgûl's chest, as if seeking refuge there could somehow keep the polluted air out of my lungs.

Not noticing my discomfort -- or, more likely, not caring -- he kept a steady pace as the horses trotted down the road that must lead to Barad Dûr. And it was a real road, or as close to one as I'd seen yet in Middle Earth, gravel-paved, and so straight it might have been built by the Romans. After a few moments I realized that burying my head against the Ringwraith's chest wasn't helping much in preventing the foul air from getting into my system. I turned my face outward once more, so that I could at least see where we were going.

What I saw was not encouraging. On either side of the road were a series of low, squat, ugly buildings -- probably barracks of some sort. There I spotted my first orcs, and they looked just about the way I had expected them to: dark, bestial, hideous. They wore armor in a staggering variety of configurations, although all of them had the blazon of the Red Eye. The air was filled with their rough voices, and I found I could understand the odd word here and there. Apparently what Tolkien had written was the truth -- since the orcs had so many different dialects, they used the common speech much of the time so they could understand one another.

Not that what I heard was particularly illuminating. Most of the shouts and cries consisted of simple enough exchanges such as, "Over here, damn you!" or "Watch it!" or once, notably, "F-cking snaga!" Who knew? I guess orcs did drop the F-bomb occasionally, even it Peter Jackson had decided not to document it in order to hold on to his PG-13 rating. But for some reason when I heard the cursing I had to stifle the urge to laugh. They sounded just like the guys my friend Melissa had once blackmailed into helping her move. Any second now one of them would probably take off for a beer and pizza run...

I knew I shouldn't have thought about food. By this point I was feeling faint with hunger; the Ringwraiths of course didn't have any "man-food" with them, as Treebeard had once called it, and they hadn't been too concerned about getting any for me, either. I'd been able to drink whenever they stopped to water the horses, but I was going on three days without food and didn't know how much longer I'd be able to hold on. I figured after I got done killing Mother Teresa for a hot shower, I'd just move on to the Dalai Lama and take him out in exchange for a cheeseburger and some fries.

After a while even the barracks fell away, and we were moving across a barren, stony plain. In the films it seemed as if Barad Dûr wasn't that far from the Black Gate, but in reality the road between the two stretched for miles and miles, an endless weary gray expanse that seemed to unfold forever under a sullen dun-colored sky. Once they were safely back in their home territory, the Black Riders seemed to have no problem continuing on during the daylight hours, and we pressed ahead at a brisk pace. The ground began to gradually slope upward, and finally I was able to see the Black Tower through the thick, smoky air.

I felt my mouth drop open. You wouldn't think that someone from our world who'd seen skyscrapers and all sorts of other architectural marvels would be impressed by something like that, but the one thing the books and not even the films could get across was the sheer scale of the place. For one thing, Barad Dûr didn't consist of one tower, but many, a black spiky edifice that looked as if it must cover square miles. True, there was a single tower that loomed over all the others, one that seemed to pulse with reddish light at the top. I didn't see the Eye, and for that I was grateful. A girl can only take so much at a time, after all.

The Riders increased their pace, and we swept up a long curving approach that brought us directly to the tower's gates. They were guarded not only by orcs but also by massive brutish creatures that I guessed must be trolls. I could feel their red-rimmed eyes on me as we passed by, but I only sat up straighter and tried not to show how frightened I truly was. The past few days I had been able to hold my fear in check, but now that I was faced with the reality of Barad Dûr I was forced to realize how dire my situation really was. True, the Nazgûl lord who had captured me had shown me a rough courtesy that had done a lot to allay my fears, but I doubted I would receive the same treatment from Sauron.

_Sauron_. I swallowed, resisting the impulse to burrow myself into the Ringwraith's cloak. Was it only my imagination, or had his arms just tightened about me, as if some vestige of chivalry had forced him to an unconscious gesture of protection? Not that it mattered. I knew he was a slave to the Dark Lord, and would do nothing to save me.

We had entered an enormous black-paved courtyard; orcs scurried here and there, but I had also caught my first glimpses of the men in Sauron's service, swarthy exotic types who did look slightly Middle Eastern and who must have been Haradrim, or perhaps Easterlings. A few curious glances came my way, but I knew better than to think anyone would try to help me.

The Ringwraiths came to a stop, and immediately several men swarmed forth out of the shadows to attend to the horses. Poor things, they had been pushed terribly over the last few miles, but obviously the Lord of the Nazgûl hadn't wished to stop for a rest once he had reached Mordor. He lifted me down out of the saddle, and it took all my strength just to keep from collapsing in a heap on the black flagstones right then and there. In the past I had fasted once or twice for about a day just to ensure that I'd be able to fit into my special "skinny" jeans for an important date, but I'd never gone this long without food before, and my body was not happy about it.

I stood there, trying to keep from shaking, as the rest of the Ringwraiths dismounted. Then followed a brief hushed conversation that I couldn't follow at all, as they were using the Black Speech. After that, the other four Riders moved off in a group, and the Lord of the Nazgûl took me by the arm and propelled me in the opposite direction, toward an entrance on the far side of the courtyard that seemed to lead to a massive stair.

Then we climbed, and climbed, and climbed some more. By the time we finally reached the long corridor that apparently was our destination, my legs felt like jelly, and I had to cling to the Ringwraith's arm just to remain upright. He took my weight as if it were nothing, and continued to support me as we moved down the hallway, a bleak place constructed of the same black stone as everything else in Mordor. No hangings or carpets or lighting relieved the darkness -- I would have felt as if I were blundering through a cave if it weren't for the Nazgûl lord's steady grip on my arm. Well, Tolkien had said orcs could see in the dark, and obviously so could the Ringwraiths. _Sauron must save a fortune on lighting in this place_, I thought.

We paused at a door, and then he opened it. I don't know what I had been expecting to see inside -- some vast audience chamber where Sauron awaited us, I suppose -- but the room that lay in front of me couldn't have been more different. Here at last candles flickered from sconces on the walls, and there was even a fireplace at one end of the room, where a fire burned low against the hearth. Also, the chamber had real furniture -- heavy, massive stuff in some kind of dark carved wood. I spotted a table with six chairs around it, a huge wardrobe or chest against one wall, and an equally enormous bed set off in an alcove with dark red draperies to either side -- presumably in case one wanted to draw them shut for some privacy. More dark red hangings in fabric that looked like silk hung from the walls in between the sconces. Certainly it was a far cry from the dungeon I had assumed would be my destination if I weren't being taken directly in front of Sauron.

I turned and looked at the Lord of the Nazgûl. The question must have been plain on my face, for he said, "This chamber is set aside for visitors of importance. Be glad the Dark Lord views you as such."

At the moment, I was as glad as I could be. Just the thought of being able to sleep on a real bed instead of a bundled cloak on rocky ground was heaven. I could almost forget that Sauron was somewhere else in this tower. Almost.

"You will be called for," he went on. "Until then, wait here." And with that he stepped away from me and went back out through the door. It shut behind him, leaving me alone.

I stood there for a moment, looking at the closed door and wondering whether I should test it to see whether it was locked. Then I decided that was stupid. Even if he had left it open, where the hell would I go? At least here I had someplace to sit down.

My rubbery legs reasserted themselves, and I staggered over to one of the chairs and sat. The bed would have been more comfortable, but by this time I was such a filthy mess that I didn't want to risk soiling the bedclothes. At least I couldn't do much damage to the hard wooden chair.

I'm not sure how long I sat there, relishing the feeling of being off my feet, before a knock came at the door. A knock? Who would bother to knock in a place like this?

Not knowing what else to do, I called out, "Come in."

The door opened, and in came a hard-faced older woman in a plain black gown, followed by a pair of orcs carrying -- believe it or not -- a bathtub. They staggered a bit, and I could see some water slop onto the stone floor. I was so happy to see their burden that I think I could have kissed both of them, orcs or not. Luckily, that wasn't required. Cursing a little under their breath, they put the tub down in front of the fire as the woman accompanying them indicated, then lurched out without giving me so much as a backward glance.

Mystified, I looked from them to the strange woman. She gave me a stern look -- then again, it could have just been her eyebrows -- then said, "I am Nurelin. His lordship requires that I look after you." Her tone indicated what she thought of the assignment, and I had to say that I wasn't overly thrilled myself. She reminded me of the evil algebra teacher I had in seventh grade. She pointed at the tub. "It was obvious you required a bath. Here is a shift." For the first time I noticed the length of unbleached muslin draped over her arm; she lifted it and placed it across the foot of the bed. Underneath was a heavier piece of nubby-looking fabric that obviously was the Middle Earth equivalent of a towel. Not waiting for me to say anything, she crossed to the table, picked up one of the chairs, and placed it close to the tub, then laid the towel on the seat. "I am working on getting you suitable garments, but in the meantime you can get clean and dress yourself in the shift. Food will be brought up shortly."

Not knowing what else to say, I murmured, "Thank you."

Nurelin made a sound suspiciously close to a sniff, but didn't bother to reply. Instead she gave me one last dark-browed glare, then marched out, leaving me alone with my bath.

Immediately I grasped the sleeves of my undergown and pulled it and the sleeveless overdress up past my head as one unit. I'd made the gown exactly as they had for the film, so it had no fastenings to deal with, thank God. Once it was off I could see how destroyed the poor thing was, splotched with dirt and sweat, the hem ragged where the fragile fabric had dragged across rock and dirt. It was clearly beyond repair, and I sighed. So much for all those hours of work sitting in front of the TV and beading those damn sleeves.

But I couldn't worry about that any more. I stripped off my tights and underwear, tossing them on the ground. They, too, were a disaster, although I supposed the underwear could be salvaged with a good washing. Maybe I'd try that after I was done with my bath, since I had a feeling that Maidenform underwire bras were in short supply in Middle Earth, and I had never been the type to run around unfettered, if you know what I mean.

Then it was just the heaven of hot water -- well, all right, lukewarm water, and scrubbing myself with the hard-bristled brush and soft tallowy soap I found sitting on an ingenious little tray attached to the side of the tub. No shampoo, of course, but soap was better than nothing, and I scrubbed vigorously at my scalp and rinsed several times to make sure I'd gotten my hair as clean as possible. Then I just lay there in front of the fire, feeling the water slowly cool around me until it wasn't worth remaining in the tub any longer.

Finally I pulled myself out and dried off, then slipped on the shift. It was a simple enough garment, with straight plain sleeves and a drawstring neckline. But the clean fabric felt heavenly after spending three days straight in the same gown, and the linen fabric was softer than it had looked. A broad-toothed comb carved from some sort of dark wood had been left on the tray as well, and I sat in front of the fire and cursed as I fought the knots my hair had accumulated over the past few days. But at last I thought I had it back into reasonable shape, and I rolled up my sleeves and set to scrubbing my undergarments as best I could. I had just finished and had draped them over the back of the chair to dry by the fire when once again someone knocked at the door.

Nurelin again. This time she hadn't bothered for me to say it was all right to come in, but I forgave her once I saw what she was carrying -- a dark metal tray full of food.

My stomach growled. Loudly. For a second I thought I saw a smirk cross her narrow face, but she said nothing as she crossed the room and set the tray down on the massive carved table.

"I'll be back for that when you're done," she said, before exiting the room once more.

Resisting the urge to make a comment about her charm school education, I just nodded and then sat down in front of the food. I'm not a hugely picky eater, but I have to admit that for a second I had been worried about what she had brought. All those stories about orcs eating manflesh had come bubbling up to the surface when I began to think about what sort of food they could possibly serve in Barad Dûr. Luckily my fears were groundless -- the plate contained what looked like half a roast chicken, some potatoes, and a hard little brown roll. No butter, but I was so ravenous I didn't really care. And there was mug of water to wash things down. I took a cautious sip, remembering how in the books the water in Mordor had tasted vile. But this seemed all right. Maybe it came out of a well or something instead of a stream.

By the time I was done eating I felt as if I were ready to fall straight into bed. Between the bath and the food I could barely hold my eyes open, and when Nurelin came back for the third and final time, she took one look at me and said, "You might as well sleep. His lordship doesn't want to see you until tomorrow."

A reprieve! Maybe just for the space of an evening, but a real night's sleep on top of the food and the bath might be enough to make me feel like a human being again. I nodded sleepily, and stumbled to the bed even as she set about banking down the fire for the night. I climbed in between the sheets, which were crisp linen instead of the smooth cotton I was used to but still felt like a little piece of heaven. With the last bit of energy I possessed I paused long enough to plait my hair into two braids. It was still damp, and if I went to sleep on it that way I was sure to turn it into a snarled, knotted mess again. While I worked away at my hair I dimly heard Nurelin gather up the tray and go out.

Then I laid my head down on the pillow, which felt as if it were filled with real down. The weariness came over me then in a dark flood. I closed my eyes and almost immediately fell into a deep sleep untroubled by any nightmares or worries of what the following day would bring.

I slept, safe in the heart of the Dark Lord's domain.


	4. An Audience With the Dark Lord

Well, this came out really quickly for some reason, so I just decided to go ahead and post it. I need to get back to my other fics, though, so it'll probably be a week before I can update again. Thanks to everyone for their wonderful reviews -- it's exciting to me the great response this little fic has gotten!

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Four: An Audience With the Dark Lord

You know those stories where the heroine wakes up in a strange place and can't remember how she got there? Well, I opened my eyes the next morning, stared up at the dark carved panels that covered the ceiling, and unfortunately recalled all too clearly where I was and how I had gotten there. No precious seconds of welcome oblivion for me -- oh, no. But at least I was clean and warm and had eaten something, although I still felt hungry. I wondered what passed for breakfast in Barad Dûr.

I didn't have long to wait until I found out. A few minutes later, just after I had heaved myself out of bed and gone to the one slit-like window the room possessed, came the familiar knock at the door. I turned from the view -- which wasn't much, just a narrow glimpse of acres of rooftops and towers, backlit by an angry red sunrise -- and said, "I'm awake."

Nurelin, of course. She had another tray of food with her, more of those hard brown rolls, some cheese, and, wonder of wonders, an apple. Maybe it wasn't blueberry pancakes, but it would do. Slung over her shoulder was a heavy mass of black fabric; after she had set the tray down on the table she draped the garment over the back of one of the chairs and said, "This is for you. He will see you in an hour."

My stomach felt as if it had dropped to the floor. "A -- an hour?"

"Yes." She smiled, but I could tell she didn't mean to be reassuring. Instead, she seemed to be enjoying my discomfort.

_Bitch_, I thought, but said nothing.

After a few seconds she scowled, then went on, "Someone will come to escort you. Make sure you are ready."

_How the hell do you get ready to meet Sauron?_ I thought, but I just nodded.

At least that got rid of her. She gave a small sniff but then departed, leaving me alone with my meager breakfast. Although at that point food had lost much of its allure, I forced myself to sit down and eat, knowing that I had just gone far too many days without nourishment to skip a meal now. On the tray I saw Nurelin had also brought a toothbrush that looked as if it should be in a museum -- wood with scary yellow bristles. But a primitive toothbrush was better than nothing at all, and I was glad to see it.

I was equally happy to see the gown Nurelin had left behind. Once I had finished eating I lifted the dress and looked at it critically, wondering how the heck she could have come up with something for me so quickly. Well, for all I knew they had sweatshops full of orcs in the bowels of Barad Dûr, sewing cloaks and uniforms and who knows what else. The gown was black -- what else -- and felt like wool, but a very fine and soft wool, not itchy at all. In construction it looked a lot like a medieval cotehardie, which was a fitted gown with tight sleeves and a full skirt. This one buttoned up the front with a row of sparkling black buttons that had to be carved obsidian or jet, and bands of velvet embroidered with a knotwork pattern in dull silver thread ornamented the neckline and the bicep areas of the sleeves. Along with the gown had come a pale gray sleeveless shift, and wadded in the folds of the skirt I found a pair of flat leather shoes.

I tried everything on, and it fit me almost perfectly. The shoes were just a shade too big, but since they laced over the instep I was able to tighten them enough that I was hopeful they wouldn't slip off. Then I unbraided my hair and ran the comb through it. The plaits had given my hair that fun rippling texture that Eowyn's had in the films, which was what I had hoped would happen when I braided it up for the night. The room had no mirrors, and I had no way of checking how I looked, but maybe that was for the best. Most of the time I didn't bother much with makeup -- in fact, I hated putting on mascara so much that I'd had my eyelashes tinted a week before the party -- but I would have killed for some lip gloss.

Then I just had to stop and laugh at myself. _You're going to meet Sauron, and you're worried about lip gloss?_ I thought. _Uh, priorities, Sarah!_

But the fact was that if I kept myself occupied with worrying over stupid things like my complete lack of cosmetics or whether those damn shoes would stay on my feet after all, I didn't have to worry about what the hell Sauron wanted with me after all -- whether he was going to have me killed in some particularly gruesome fashion or tortured or whatever else my brain could come up with at the moment. I tried to tell myself that it didn't make much sense to put me up in a nice room, feed me, and give me nice clothes to wear, just to kill me. Then again, maybe that was just part of the torture element in the scenario. Hadn't I read somewhere in the books that Sauron liked to play with his victims, like a cat with a mouse?

I ran nervous hands over the full skirts of my gown and tried to make my brain shut up. It was at this auspicious moment that once again someone knocked at my door.

Willing my heart to stay inside my ribcage, I stood and went to the door and opened it. Instead of Nurelin, the Lord of the Nazgûl stood there. He regarded me for a moment, his stern face unreadable, then said, "Come."

Knowing there was nothing else I could do, I stepped out into the corridor and shut the door to my room behind me. Once again I followed him through the hallway and then down that enormous staircase we had climbed the evening before. The place was a perfect maze -- hallways and corridors cutting across one another, unexpected corners, massive staircases coming out of nowhere -- I couldn't keep track of where we were going and began to wonder if I should have left a trail of bread crumbs behind me. But the Ringwraith seemed to know exactly where he was going, which I supposed made sense. It would take a few thousand years to figure out all the twists and turns of Sauron's citadel.

I knew we were getting close to our destination when the crowds in the hallways grew thicker. We passed orcs in a bewildering assortment of sizes and shapes, several trolls, and many more of the swarthy-faced men I had seen in the courtyard the day before. Everyone moved aside as the Lord of the Nazgûl strode through them, a dark Moses parting the waters. I wondered what they saw when they looked at him -- just a tall robed figure, I supposed. Today he had the hood of his cowled garment up over his head, but that hadn't kept me from seeing his face clearly. Not that that helped much -- he might as well have been invisible to me for all I could tell from his expression.

The ceiling here was very high, vaulted like pictures I'd seen of cathedrals in Europe. And at the end of the hall stood a pair of enormous carved ebony-wood doors. I didn't need to ask what lay behind them.

Immediately before the entrance to Sauron's audience chamber, the Lord of the Nazgûl paused. He looked down at me for a moment, then said quietly, "He is curious to know what you will see."

Believe me, so was I. What I recalled from the books and the films wasn't exactly encouraging. Then, as I stood there, contemplating the Eye of Sauron and the hideous flaming vision from the movies, I suddenly got a horrible, inexplicable urge to laugh. And I realized it was all Mike's fault -- again -- because he was the one who had told me the Deformed Baby joke.

First off, apologies to anyone who might be handicapped or physically challenged or whatever the hell they're calling it these days. It's actually a very silly joke, one that follows a hapless set of parents as they go through the neonatal ward at a hospital from one progressively more disabled infant to another. With each baby, the mother says something like, "Well, at least he has arms to hold me" (in the case of the baby that was born without legs). It gets worse and worse, until they finally end up looking at a baby that's just one giant eye. And then the mother says, "Well, at least it can see the beauty of the world." And the doctor says, "It's blind."

And that, God help me, was what I thought of as I stood in front of Sauron's chamber. I remembered that huge flaming Eye from the film, and all I could think of was Mike's deadpan delivery of "it's blind" in my ear right during that scene when you see the tower of Barad Dûr for the fist time. Of course I had burst out laughing, earning me the evil eye (no pun intended) from everyone seated around me in the theater.

I made a choking half-laugh, half-cough, and the Nazgûl narrowed his flinty eyes at me. Then I swallowed, willing myself to calm. If I started laughing for real, I didn't know what he would do. Also, I was worried that the laughter would turn into hysterics far too quickly.

So I bit my lip, murmured, "Sorry," and took a deep breath.

He gave me another one of those dubious looks, but said nothing. Instead, he reached out, grasped the massive handles, and swung the doors inward.

At first I couldn't see much, since the only light came from a series of tall, narrow windows that marched their way down either side of the hall, and the day outside was sullen and overcast once again. Shadows seemed to move in the corners of the enormous chamber, which had a high buttressed ceiling like the corridor outside it. I wasn't given much of a chance to take in any more details, since the Ringwraith strode forward, boots sounding hollowly off the stone floor. Perforce, I hurried after him, noting as I did so that -- unlike the hallway through which we had just passed -- this room seemed to be empty.

But not completely. The Lord of the Nazgûl paused in front of the black marble dais at the far end of the chamber, bowed very low, and said, "The girl, my lord."

Then he stepped aside, and I had my first look at Sauron, the Dark Lord.

He was beautiful. I know that's an odd way to describe a man -- or something that appears to be a man -- but I don't know how else to put it. There was something unearthly about the perfection of his features, about the pale silvery-gray eyes that regarded me coldly from beneath a veil of heavy black lashes. His hair was black as well and fell to his shoulders. And he was very tall -- he seemed to tower over the Lord of the Nazgûl, who stood at least several inches past six feet.

All thoughts of flaming eyes and deformed infants immediately flew out of my mind. I had the crazy impulse to sink to my knees, like some Old Testament prophet in front of a divine manifestation. Somehow I managed to remain upright, although my legs felt like Jell-o.

Then he spoke. "You have the aspect of one of the Eldar, but you are not one of them, I think." His voice was soft but deep, and something about it seemed to wake shivery echoes at the very edges of my hearing.

"N-no, your lordship," I stammered, hating how thin and weak I sounded in comparison to him. It's at times like these when having an English accent would come in really handy. And how the hell do you address someone like Sauron, anyway? I hoped "your lordship" would do.

"Curious," he said, then stepped away from the enormous black throne that dominated the dais and came toward me. Up close he was even more intimidating; I am not short, but he made me feel like a pygmy. If the situation ever reversed itself and he got dropped into my world, he could always get work as a starting forward for the Lakers.

Once he had gotten within arm's length he reached out and grasped my chin in his hand, lifting my face so I could see him more clearly. I noticed that his ring finger was missing, and a shiver ran through me, even though his skin felt very hot against mine, almost to the point of discomfort. Under normal circumstances I would have wrenched myself out of the grasp of anyone who tried to manhandle me like that, but these were far from normal circumstances. I just stood there, trying not to tremble, attempting to find the strength to match the glare of those strange silvery eyes.

"My lord of Angmar informs that somehow you are able to see him as he once was," Sauron went on, never taking his eyes from mine.

"I -- I suppose so, your lordship," I said. "That is -- he looks like a regular man to me. They all do."

"Indeed." Finally he took his hand away from my chin, and I resisted the urge to reach up and rub the flesh where he had grasped me. Somehow I could still feel the heat of his fingers against my skin. "And what do you see when you look at me?"

I stared at him, taking in the translucent perfection of his skin, the sculpted bones of his face, the fall of the heavy black tunic and slate-gray over-robe he wore. No armor here, the way he had been pictured in the film. Then again, why would he wear armor here, in the heart of his kingdom?

"I see a man," I replied, then shook my head. "No -- not exactly a man, but a being with the appearance of one. You have black hair. And you're missing a finger."

The finely arched dark brows drew down as he appeared to contemplate my words. Then he looked past me to the Lord of the Nazgûl. "And you found her wandering in the wastes of Rohan?"

"Yes, my lord. She was alone, on foot, with no sign of how she could have come there."

Sauron returned his piercing gaze to me. "Who are you, girl?"

"No one special," I said. "My name is Sarah Monaghan. I'm a student." I lifted my shoulders. "That's all."

"'All'?" he repeated. "A young woman who at first glance appears to be one of the Eldar yet is somehow not, a girl who has seemingly come from nowhere and yet can see my Nazgûl and myself in aspects the world has not known for several ages of Men? Yet you claim that you are 'no one special'?"

I shrugged once more. I certainly had no way of explaining any of it -- perhaps the fact that I had come from another world entirely had done something to alter my vision in this one. But I knew suddenly that I would have to be extremely careful in my answers to Sauron. Maybe this was all a dream. Maybe I really was experiencing some sort of drug-induced hallucination. Maybe I had been in a car accident on my way home from the party, and these were the wild imaginings of a brain sunk into a coma. I had no way of knowing for sure. However, if -- _if_ -- this was all really happening to me, then I certainly could not let slip how much I knew of the events that were about to transpire in Middle Earth. What would Sauron have done, if he had been forewarned of the actual intent of the Fellowship?

That notion led to more ideas too terrible to contemplate. All I could do was hope that Sauron didn't have the ability to read minds, or at least mine in particular. If he decided I was withholding information and tried to torture it out of me, then Frodo & Co. were certainly doomed, because I hadn't even been able to stand up to an interrogation by my mother during my freshman year of college as to whether I had a fake I.D. and, once that was determined, how I'd managed to get it (silly question, since I went into downtown Los Angeles every day for school, and you could practically pick one up on any street corner in the MacArthur Park area). No, my only hope was to be vague and pray that Sauron couldn't see my obfuscation for what it was.

"How _did_ you come here?" he asked. Those silver-bright eyes looked like scalpels trying to cut their way into my mind.

"I don't know," I said. "I remember falling, and then I was here." I wanted to tell him that I didn't remember any more than that, but I recalled that I had blurted out to the Lord of the Nazgûl something about being at a party, and I had referred to Middle Earth by name, so that wouldn't work.

"You remember your name."

"That, and a few bits and pieces," I replied. "Nothing more."

"Perhaps," he said, and I tried not to let my relief show. Then I tensed again as he added, "Perhaps not. But we have time to discover the truth of the situation."

I swallowed, but kept my mouth shut.

"My lord," offered the Ringwraith, in his deep, calm voice, "it is obvious she knows nothing."

Resisting the urge to throw a grateful look in his direction, I kept my eyes cast down toward the black stone floor.

"So certain, my lord of Angmar?" inquired Sauron, his tone silky. "There is more here than meets the eye -- even eyes as clear-seeing as hers."

The Lord of the Nazgûl said nothing, but I thought I could see his shoulders stiffen a bit. "As you say, my lord."

"Indeed I do." Sauron was silent for a moment, then reached out to run one finger along my hair. I tried not to flinch but wasn't entirely successful. A slight lift at the corner of his mouth seemed to indicate that he had noticed the small twitch I had made, and was amused by it. "Still, it is -- refreshing, to not be looked upon with horror for a change." He withdrew his hand, then made a dismissive gesture. "More of this later. Take her back to her chambers. Let her think for a while on the wisdom of telling us what she knows."

And with that the Lord of the Nazgûl bowed, then ushered me out of the audience chamber. Of course I was more than happy to follow after him -- I had to restrain myself from gathering up my skirts and running out of there. But I managed to maintain a somewhat decorous pace that brought me level with the Ringwraith, even though it seemed as if I could feel Sauron's eyes boring a hole in my back as I walked down the length of the room. It was only after we were back out in the relative safety of the corridor that I let out the breath I had been holding.

I looked up at the man who strode along next to me -- this undead being, this king who had lost his kingdom millennia ago. His profile looked like something that should have been on an ancient Roman statue. I felt a rush of gratitude then -- somehow I got the impression that he had been trying to shield me as best he could. I wanted to thank him and didn't know how.

Instead I let him lead me back to my room in silence. Only when he opened the door for me did he speak at last.

"It will go ill for you if you do not tell him what you know," he said.

"I don't know anything," I protested, but the words sounded hollow even to me.

He shook his head. "I don't believe you," he replied, then added ominously, "And neither does Lord Sauron." Then he shut the door, leaving me alone in the somber chamber.

I stood there for a minute, staring at the heavy blackened-oak door with its thick iron-studded bands. His words had shaken me more than I wanted to admit. It seemed as if it were only a matter of time before Sauron broke out the thumb screws.

Feeling numb, I crossed to the bed and sat down. I stared across the room, out at the red-tinged daylight that barely managed to make it through the slit-like window. I wondered what the hell I was doing here, and whether I would ever be able to go home again. And with that dreary thought dragging at my brain, I finally started to cry.

I didn't know what else to do.


	5. Loose Lips

Things are going to go downhill really fast...

* * *

Chapter 5: Loose Lips

Crying's all right, I guess, but it can get old really fast when there's no one around to pat you on the back and tell you everything is going to be all right -- even when it isn't. Besides, after a few minutes of sitting on the edge of the bed and sobbing my eyes out, I began to get paranoid that Nurelin would barge in at any moment, and the last thing I needed was for her to see me being a big blubbery mess. So I wiped at my eyes with the back of my hand, sniffed a few times -- God forbid there should be anything as useful as a box of Kleenex or even a handkerchief around here -- then got up and went to the window. It was midday by my calculations, but the sky outside was brown and heavy, leaching away what little warmth the sun might have had. The opaque air and the odd tint it gave to everything reminded me of the stories my mother used to tell about third-stage smog alerts in Southern California back in the early '70s. Well, smog started out as just smoke and fog mixed together, and that's probably what I was looking at right now.

Even through the murky air I could see that Barad Dûr hummed with activity like an ant hill that had been stirred with a stick. Lines of troops moved both into and out of the citadel, following the same hard-packed road the Ringwraiths had taken the day before. Even in my lonely eyrie far above the armories and barracks I heard the ring of metal on metal as more weapons were crafted for the Dark Lord's armies. And then I heard something else -- a long, drawn-out cry that seemed to drag a cruel talon across my eardrums. A few seconds later a massive winged beast with a dark rider on its back came swooping in from the south and crossed my field of vision. Apparently the Ringwraiths had just traded up from their horses.

I don't know how long I stood there, my head leaning against the cold masonry of the window frame as I stared out at the awesome might of Mordor gathering itself for war. The final war, thank God, although of course Sauron didn't know that yet. And somehow I had to figure out a way to keep him from knowing.

He'd hinted at torture, and I wasn't naive enough to think that he'd scruple to use it, not with something as huge as world domination riding on the results. I also knew there wasn't a snowball's chance in a volcano that I'd be able to keep my secrets to myself for more than a few minutes. And what then? Would my information be enough for him to capture Frodo, wherever he was at this point, and seize the Ring from him? I just didn't know enough about Sauron's connection with the One Ring -- obviously he didn't have the Middle Earth equivalent of Lojack, where he'd be aware of its location at all times. Frodo had been able to sneak the damn thing right up under Sauron's nose, for God's sake. But Sauron's biggest blind spot had been believing that there was no way the free people of Middle Earth would actually try to destroy the Ring -- he'd seemed to think that they would somehow attempt to use it for their own ends. If he suddenly knew that the Ring was being brought here to Mordor, then if nothing else the knowledge would help him to narrow his search considerably. From then on, it would only be a matter of time.

Once again I found myself wishing I'd paid more attention to Mike and his geeky babble about the forging of the rings of power and what had actually happened to Middle Earth during the years that Sauron had ruled it. Because he had, hadn't he? And yet people had survived to rise up against him and finally take the Ring from him. That was a slightly heartening thought, but I sure didn't want to be the one responsible for bringing Sauron back to power once more, just so the whole cycle could start all over again.

_Well, maybe he won't torture you after all_, I told myself. _You've just got to keep playing it cool. He seems sort of intrigued by you, so keep working that angle._

My ruminations were disturbed by a gentle knock at the door. I blinked, and realized the light in the room had subtly changed. The day seemed to be moving on toward evening. I wondered how long I had spent staring out the window, sorting through my thoughts. My stomach rumbled, and I hoped that the knock might be Nurelin bringing me my dinner.

When I opened the door, however, I saw the Lord of the Nazgûl standing there instead. I stared at him in surprise for a few seconds, then said, "Oh, I'm sorry. Come in."

He took a few steps into the room and then paused there as I shut the door. His hood was thrown back, and I thought I saw a flicker of worry cross his stony features.

When he spoke, though, his voice sounded cold and even as ever. "My Lord Sauron commands me to return to my post at Minas Morgul. I leave tonight."

His words sent a shiver of apprehension through me. I know it sounds crazy to refer to the Lord of the Nazgûl's company as comforting, but in some bizarre way I did take some solace from his presence. He had never mistreated me, had always treated me with courtesy. Probably he could have done nothing to shield me from Sauron, but the knowledge that he was leaving made me feel as if I were about to lose my only ally in this place.

And what should I say? "Good luck"? "I'm sorry"? How about, "Please don't leave me here alone -- take me with you!"? I was sure that would go over like a lead balloon.

Instead I glanced down at the floor and remained silent. I wondered suddenly if he was able to detect any signs in my face of my weeping fit from a few hours ago.

"I meant what I said earlier," he went on. "I know nothing of you, but somehow it seems as if you think this is all some sort of game."

"Oh, I know it's not that," I said drearily. "Games are supposed to be fun. But I really don't know anything useful. Really."

Those cold gray eyes caught mine. I found myself unable to look away but stared back, hoping there was nothing in my face he could read.

"The lord of Mordor will stop at nothing to retrieve his prize," he said. "If he thinks you know something, he will shatter you to get at that knowledge."

I shivered, and finally managed to tear my eyes away from his.

"For myself, I would prefer not to make war on women or the innocent," he continued, "although at times it has been unavoidable."

"Well, that's ironic," I remarked, then wished I could have stepped on my tongue.

Again a dagger-sharp look. "What do you mean?"

It was too late to take back the words. And damn it -- somehow I found myself liking this man, even though logically I knew he was evil, that he had the blood of God knows how many people on his hands. But he had wrapped his cloak around me to shelter me from the cold on the ride here, had tried to protect me when I had gone before Sauron. I didn't want anything bad to happen to him. "All I'm saying," I replied, choosing my words carefully for once, "is that if you should just happen to run across a woman dressed in men's armor, you should watch out." I figured that should be enough. No use mentioning the one-two punch that Eowyn and Merry had given him on the Pelennor Fields. Besides, the Ringwraiths were already looking for hobbits anyway.

"You do know something." It was not a question.

"A little," I admitted finally. "But not as much as Sauron probably thinks." I looked up at him, hoping that he could see the pleading in my eyes. "You won't -- say anything, will you?"

His hard mouth softened ever so slightly. "I leave for Minas Ithil immediately. There will be no time for me to speak with his lordship."

I wanted to hug him, but instead just murmured, "Thank you."

"I must go." He pulled the hood up over his head once more, then paused a second. He asked, "Why would you do this for me?"

With the hood up I couldn't see his face anymore. Somehow not seeing his expression made it easier for me to reply. "Because I like you."

A long silence greeted that comment. He stood here for a moment, then made an odd little movement with his right hand -- it seemed as if he had wanted to reach out to me, but instead his fingers curled into a fist. The hood dipped briefly, as if he had nodded, and then he turned and moved quickly out through the door.

I remained standing there for a moment, wondering if he would think the better of it and come back to speak with me some more, but after a few minutes had passed I realized he was gone. Off to Minas Ithil, that weird glowing fortress in the canyon, the one Frodo had to pass by on the way to -- what the hell was that place called, anyway? _Cirith_ something. Not that it mattered. I recalled clearly that it was haunted by Shelob, and any place that had a twenty-foot spider hanging around sounded like a good place for me to avoid. Luckily I hadn't squeamed too much at that scene in the movie, but that was only because I'd spent most of my childhood watching monster movies with Mike anyway. But it was one thing to see that sort of thing up on a movie screen and quite another to have it charging at you in real life.

Repressing a shudder, I went to the table and sat down on one of the chairs, contemplating the dreary scene outside my window. Maybe I could catch a glimpse of the Lord of the Nazgûl as he flew off to Minas Ithil. I just hoped he would heed my advice. His knowing about Eowyn wouldn't change all that much, would it? Oh, maybe the battle for Gondor would have gone a little differently if the Lord of the Nazgûl survived, but none of that would matter once the Ring fell into Mount Doom. Would they all die, then? Not just Sauron, but the Ringwraiths? And what about all the people here in Mordor? In the film it looked as if the earth sort of swallowed up the whole place, which would be kind of bad luck for people like Nurelin and the other servants here. I mean, she was kind of a bitch -- OK, mostly a bitch -- but that wasn't really enough for me to want her to get buried under rubble or lava or whatever. And if I were still here when Gollum finally slipped into Mount Doom and destroyed the Ring, would I die along with everyone else? That was a comforting thought.

There's nothing more frustrating than racking your brains, trying to dig up knowledge you'd only read once. Oh, I've seen the films a couple of times, thanks to Mike and his super-duper mega-extended versions, but great as they were, they didn't give the whole story. I didn't know what the date was. The cold weather suggested it was still winter, but the end or the beginning? I had a feeling the Ringwraiths had been on their way back to Mordor after their abortive attempt to seize the Ring from Frodo on the way to Rivendell when they had scooped me up. All I knew was that the Ring was destroyed somewhere toward the end of March -- I couldn't remember the exact date. So how much time did I have?

By this time evening began to fall in the smoky world outside my window, and my stomach made itself known -- loudly this time. Maybe Sauron planned to starve me into submission.

Well, if that were the case, he had some waiting to do. I'd just gone three days without food and lived to tell the tale -- it hadn't been fun by any stretch of the imagination, but hunger I could deal with. Pain was a much bigger issue.

The minutes crawled by. Finally the door swung open, and Nurelin stood there, looking displeased.

"Thanks for knocking," I said.

Her eyes narrowed, but she didn't bother to reply. Instead she said, "He wants you. Now."

No point in asking who "he" was. If my stomach hadn't been so busy with being hungry it probably would have knotted itself up with worry. But I just pushed my chair away from the table and stood. I knew better than to argue.

My meekness seemed to mollify Nurelin a bit. She uncreased her eyebrows and stepped back out into the corridor, then waited as I exited my room and shut the door behind me. Just outside my door was a small shelf with a lighted candle sitting on it; she gathered it up before we set out. It made sense. As far as I could tell, she was just an ordinary woman and wouldn't have the ability to see in the dark the way the Lord of the Nazgûl had.

Once again I made my way through the endless hallways, although it was a bit more difficult having Nurelin as my guide instead of the Ringwraith. She seemed to know her way well enough, but we were jostled several times by the crowds, and once we were even halted by a man who looked like a captain of the Easterlings. He seized her by the sleeve and asked, in heavily accented words, "Who is this one? She looks tasty."

"She's for Lord Sauron," Nurelin hissed, and the man dropped her sleeve as if it had been on fire. He shot me a half-pitying, half-speculative look before continuing on his way.

None of this helped to settle my nerves, that was for sure. _For Lord Sauron_? What the hell was that supposed to mean? I could only hope it had been the easiest way to get the man to beg off. He had been disconcerting, of course, but I was used to that sort of thing -- a girl couldn't walk down the street in downtown L.A. without getting lecherous looks and the occasional catcall. Actually, in a place like this, a man's lust was almost refreshingly normal.

I didn't pretend to remember all the twists and turns I had taken on my first journey to Sauron's audience chamber, but somehow it felt as if we were headed in a different direction -- the corridor through which we now walked didn't have the high vaulted ceilings of the hallway outside the room where I had first met the Dark Lord. But I knew better than to ask any questions. Nurelin's face was mostly expressionless, but she looked tense, and I suddenly wondered if she had actually ever met Sauron or whether she received his commands some other way. And if she _had_ seen him, exactly what had she seen? Not the godlike figure I had beheld in the audience chamber, I was guessing.

Finally she came to a halt outside a tall double door. A fat red candle burned in a sconce to either side of the entry, and I wondered if that were a concession to my all-too-human vision.

"I may go no further than this," she said. "He awaits you." And with that she opened the left-hand door and pushed me, none too gently, inside. Then she slammed it shut behind me.

I stood in another long corridor, but this one was darkly beautiful, with panels of carved ebony on either side and more candles burning in sconces at equal intervals down its expanse. The floor under my feet was black marble instead of the rough flagstone I'd seen in most of the rest of the citadel.

Not knowing what else to do, I moved forward, toward another set of double doors at the end of the hallway. Once I reached them, I pushed on the handles and found that they too swung inward. This time, however, I stepped into a large chamber, not another corridor. I didn't have time for much more than a quick glimpse of more carved panels, hangings with dragons and other mythical beasts worked upon them, and a flicker of candles before a dark figure moved toward me.

Sauron, of course. And my vision of him hadn't changed -- he was still the eerily beautiful figure I had seen in the audience chamber earlier that day.

Feeling awkward, I stopped dead on the large rug that covered the center of the marble floor. Somehow he was even more frightening without the leavening presence of the Lord of the Nazgûl.

"Welcome," he said, as pleasantly as if he'd given me a choice. Then he spread a long-fingered hand in the direction of a huge table that was pushed up against the far wall. It held several platters of food -- wonderful things like cheese and bread, what smelled like some sort of roast fowl, even a decanter of wine. "Perhaps you would like something to eat?"

My stomach definitely did, that was for sure. It let out another rumble, and he smiled.

_Oh, fine_, I thought. _So you probably haven't been hungry for thousands of years -- if ever._ Did demigods like Sauron even have to eat? My only real basis for comparison was what I'd read in Greek mythology, and those gods seemed to be lolling about eating nectar and ambrosia all the time. But I felt fairly certain that wasn't a very good analogy.

Without replying, I moved to the table and casually picked up a slice of bread, then laid a piece of yellow cheese on top of it. I took a bite, then another. It was good -- better than the stuff Nurelin had brought me earlier. "Thank you," I said, once I'd finished chewing.

Another one of those disconcerting smiles. "Allow me." He lifted the decanter of wine and poured a healthy amount into one of the silver goblets that stood on the table, then handed it to me.

I knew I didn't dare refuse it, although drinking wine on a mostly empty stomach probably wasn't the best thing to do at that point, especially since I had the feeling he would start grilling me as soon as he thought he had lulled me into a false sense of security. So I lifted the goblet to my lips and sipped at it. It tasted wonderful. I wondered where he had gotten it, but I supposed if Saruman could get pipeweed from the Shire at Isengard then anything was possible.

"Better?" he asked, and I nodded cautiously.

"I should not have neglected you for so long," he went on. "But, as you might have noticed, I am preparing for war."

He was being way too nice. Which meant he was probably going to turn not-nice in the very near future. Unfortunately, there wasn't much I could do about it. I took another sip of wine, then replied, "Things do look a little busy around here."

"Indeed." He poured wine into another goblet and drank. Well, that answered one question. "My lord of Angmar has returned to his citadel at Minas Ithil," he went on.

"Really?" I asked, sounding a little strangled even to myself. Not knowing what else to do, I lifted the goblet and allowed myself another small mouthful of wine.

"Yes," he said, his tone starting to sound a little ominous. "It appears you sent him off with some interesting counsel."

_Son of a --_ I should have known. I should have realized that anyone who'd been under Sauron's thumb for a few thousand years wouldn't have been able to keep his mouth shut.

I have no idea what my face must have looked like at that moment. But it couldn't have been good, because he smiled again before saying, "Foolish girl. Did you really think that anything you told him wouldn't become my knowledge as well? But don't look so betrayed -- he said nothing to me. But he is bound to me, bound by the power of the ring I gave him, and his thoughts are naked before me."

Well, that was a little tidbit it would have been handy to know. I couldn't recall Mike ever relating anything of that sort in his geekly rants. Not that it mattered now.

But his arrogance made me angry. I was just another pawn on the chessboard to him, and obviously he couldn't have cared less what I thought or felt. "He happens to be a gentleman," I retorted. "Unlike some people I could mention."

He laughed. I never thought laughter could be so cruel. Maybe I was imagining things, but it almost seemed as if the ground beneath my feet shook slightly with the sound.

"Do you think your simple taunts bother me?" he asked. "Go ahead, if it pleases you."

Of course that comment killed any desire I might have had to make more pointed remarks. I lapsed into a clumsy silence, keeping my attention focused on the ground in front of me. Making eye contact seemed dangerous.

"As I thought," Sauron said, and he sounded far too pleased with himself, like a cat that knows it's boxed the mouse into a corner. "Now then," he went on, "perhaps you would like to discuss how you obtained this information you passed on to my lord of Angmar?"

In answer I placed my goblet back on the table, crossed my arms, and studiedly continued to stare at the rug. It was a beautiful thing, very old, with a close pile and a pattern that looked like twining snakes and dragons worked in red and black and gold.

His smile faded. He down his own goblet and then reached out to grasp me by the arm. That hand felt stronger than any grip I had ever felt before, and the heat coming off his fingers seemed to burn right through the fabric of my gown. I winced, but still said nothing.

"Do you want me to hurt you?" he asked, his tone casual. "I can, you know. I can make you scream so that they'll hear you all the way to Minas Tirith."

For a long second I stood there, feeling his burning grasp on my arm, then I lifted my head to finally look at him.

That unearthly face held very little expression, but I could see the greedy hunger in his eyes as he waited for my reply. I knew he wasn't lying. The pressure around my upper arm intensified as he tightened his grip, and I wondered if I would find a ring of burned flesh there when I took the gown off. And besides his grip on my physical body, I could almost feel the beating of his will against mine, like some thundery pressure forcing itself down on my brain. My heart pounded so loudly I thought for sure it would shatter my ribcage. Each breath became agony, as if I were drawing in super-heated air straight from the heart of Mount Doom.

"You see?" he whispered. "Do not dare to fight me. You cannot win."

The room began to grow dark. Hazy red flashes formed in front of my eyes, and for a split-second I thought I saw some hideous demonic being clutching me. Then I blinked, and Sauron's godlike visage re-formed itself in my vision.

"I -- I can't -- " I gasped.

"You can," he murmured. His voice sounded very close to my ear. "Tell me, and live."

Blackness surrounded me. I was drowning, sinking, the very air forced out of my lungs. I clutched at him, at anything that would keep me from sliding into the darkness forever. The strength went out of my legs, and I would have fallen if he hadn't continued to hold me up.

"Tell me," he said again.

"All right," I choked. "Just make it stop."

"Of course," he replied, and the pressure on my throat and lungs abruptly ceased.

I took a huge gasping swallow of air, blinking the red spots away from my eyes. Breathing had never felt so good. Sauron waited, watching as I coughed and panted like someone who's just run a marathon. Solicitously, he held my goblet of wine to my lips and let me drink. Almost tenderly he then set the goblet aside, and then he smiled.

"Tell me what you know."


	6. Betrayal

Ha -- fixed that pesky SAT boo-boo! Thanks, nodaaaaaa!

* * *

Chapter 6: Betrayal

I gasped, "I need to sit down." My throat still felt raw, as if I had swallowed a scalding cup of coffee well laced with Tabasco.

Again with that false solicitude, he helped me over to a well-padded chair set against the wall. I sank down on it, my fingers digging into the soft velvet that covered the seat. It seemed as if I didn't hang on to that piece of furniture for dear life I would surely fall over into a heap on the floor. But after I had regained enough strength so that it didn't seem as if I needed every ounce of energy just to keep from fainting, the enormity of what I had just done hit me. How could I promise to betray all of Middle Earth, just to save my own life? Surely it would have been better to die.

I lifted my head to see Sauron watching me closely. How I wished I could grab something -- anything -- the decanter from the side table would do -- and smash it over his head. But I knew that was impossible. Even an ordinary man probably could have stopped me, let alone an immortal being like the Dark Lord.

Outright assault wouldn't work, but stalling couldn't hurt. "Some water?" I asked. My request wasn't even a lie -- my throat was killing me, and the wine hadn't helped much.

He made an impatient gesture, but the hoarseness of my voice seemed to convince him. Without further comment he moved a few steps away from me and murmured something I couldn't quite make out. Just a moment or so later the door opened, and a smallish orc -- probably of the sort the Uruk-hai referred to as _snagas_ -- all but crept in, his head bent toward the floor as if he couldn't bear to look at Sauron directly. He held a pitcher of some dark metal, and scuttled toward the side table, where he set down the pitcher, bowed so low he almost prostrated himself on the ground, then backed away, his gaze never lifting from the floor.

The Dark Lord wasted no time; he immediately lifted up my goblet, carelessly splashed its remaining contents on the floor, and refilled it with water. Then he handed it to me, commanding, "Drink."

There was no way for me to refuse. I took the goblet and drank deeply of the cool water, which I have to admit did feel marvelous against my abused throat. Then I paused, clutching the goblet and staring down at my lap.

"So," said Sauron.

"So," I repeated. No escape now -- no way out. I had to tell him something, or he'd certainly assault me once more. My throat muscles twinged at the mere thought. But even though I felt nauseated by what I was about to say, I couldn't think of what else I might do to fight him off. Perhaps I could lie, but I had the sick feeling that he would catch me in any falsehoods I might give him, and then I'd be worse off than I was before. I took a breath and said, "I'm not sure how to explain this, but I'm not from here. I'm from another world."

Even as I said the words I realized how stupid they sounded. Maybe now would be a good time to launch into one of Mike's geeky Hawking-esque explanations of parallel universes. I took a quick glance at Sauron's narrowed quicksilver eyes and then thought that probably wasn't such a good idea after all. "I know that sounds crazy," I went on hurriedly, before the Dark Lord decided another choking might be in order, "but it's the truth. Where I come from, this place -- Middle Earth -- is just something in a story." I paused, wondered whether I should elaborate further, then decided probably not. A story he could understand. Film? Not so much. Besides, how the story had been told didn't matter as much as the story itself. "So...since I've read the story, I know what happens. Sort of -- " I added, thinking that maybe I could use my ignorance of certain key points of Middle Earth history as a kind of hedge.

"A story?" he repeated. "One whose ending you presumably know?"

I couldn't trust my voice. Instead, I nodded.

He moved closer to the chair in which I sat, so close that one dragging end of his robe trailed across my foot. "Tell me."

It didn't help that he was so physically overwhelming, so inhumanly tall. As he stood over me while I huddled in the chair, I felt as if I were shrinking down to half my normal height. But I knew I couldn't allow him to intimidate me any more. I lifted my head, threw back my hair, and gave him an evil smile of my own. "You lose," I replied.

That took him aback, I could tell. One eyebrow lifted, and his jaw tensed. "Lose? How is this possible?"

"The Ring is destroyed."

A sudden stillness went over him. If it weren't for the rise and fall of his chest, he would have looked almost like a wax figure. "Destroyed? How?"

"There's only one way it can be destroyed, isn't there?"

His gaze shifted away from me, off to our right. I wondered if he were directing his glance toward the unseen Mount Doom, looming somewhere outside this maze of corridors and stairs and uncounted rooms. One pale hand clenched a fold of his black velvet robes.

"You never thought they'd try that, did you?" I asked. "So Tolkien was right. You were so sure they'd use the Ring for their own purposes instead of trying to get rid of it once and for all."

"Who is this 'Tolkien' of whom you speak?"

"He's the one who wrote the story in the first place."

Sauron seemed to consider that statement for a moment. "So," he said at last, drawing out the syllable, "if it has been written once, can this fate be changed?"

I hadn't stopped to think about that. Maybe once it had been set on paper, or film, the story was fixed in time. My presence here might not make any difference at all. I certainly hoped so, but I had no way of knowing for sure. Obviously a character resembling me had never been mentioned in the books, but Tolkien hadn't exactly been giving a rundown on everything that was happening at the Dark Tower while the members of the Fellowship occupied themselves elsewhere. On the other hand, my presence here could signal a change, an anomaly that might be enough to destroy the delicate chain of events that eventually would lead to the Ring's destruction.

"I don't know," I said, after a long pause. "And I'm not lying," I added, as his expression grew more grim, and he opened his mouth to speak. "I really don't know what my being here means."

"We can ponder that later," he replied. "How does the Ring come to fall into Mount Doom?"

Damn. How could I possibly squirm my way out of this one? But then I realized it was Gollum who destroyed the Ring, even though it had been completely by accident. Maybe I could avoid mentioning Frodo and Sam altogether. "Well, there's this -- creature, I guess -- named Gollum -- "

"Gollum?" he cut in. For a second a look of shock crossed those inhumanly perfect features, and I recalled that Gollum had once been a captive in this very tower. They had tortured him, gotten the name of Bilbo Baggins out of him, and sent him on his way. No doubt Sauron was infuriated to learn that someone he had once held prisoner here turned out to be the vehicle for the Ring's destruction. But then his face smoothed, and he said, "I find that impossible to believe. Gollum would never willingly destroy the Ring. He coveted it for himself."

"Oh, it was an accident," I blurted out. _Great, Sarah_, I thought,_ just spill the whole thing_.

"How so?"

I hesitated. For a second I could feel a sudden pressure against my throat, and at the same time the corners of Sauron's mouth lifted. Bastard. Obviously his patience had begun to run out. "He was trying to take the Ring from Frodo, and they fought over it at the edge of the Cracks of Doom. Gollum got it, but he slipped and fell in. And that was the end."

"Frodo?" he asked immediately. "Frodo Baggins?"

"Yes."

"So this Halfling somehow journeyed all the way to Mordor, simply to destroy the Ring."

I nodded.

Sauron's eyes glittered. "This means he must be close at hand."

Feeling ill again, I looked away from his beautiful gloating features. I said, "I don't know. I don't even know what day it is."

"It is the fifth day of March, as men reckon the passage of time."

Once again I felt as if I were strangling, but I knew this time it wasn't because of anything Sauron might be doing. So close -- just three weeks or so until Frodo and Sam made it to Mount Doom. That meant they had to be somewhere in the vicinity, although I wasn't sure enough of the timeline to know for certain.

My dismay must have been clear to him, because Sauron leaned closer to me, so close that I could feel the heat radiating off his body. How unlike the Lord of the Ringwraiths, who had been cold, cold as the walking dead, yet so kind in his way.

"I will sense the lie in your mind," the Dark Lord said, and he reached out to trail one finger across my jaw and down my throat. "So do not presume to give me one."

I swallowed. He was exerting no pressure at the moment, but just the delicate touch of his fingertip against my skin was enough to remind me of what he could do. Still, I had to put up some sort of fight. "Will you promise not to hurt them?" I asked desperately.

"What?" He withdrew his hand, but he was still uncomfortably close.

"I'll tell you -- if you swear to me you won't hurt them, that you'll just send them home again."

"What difference to me whether they live or die, if I have the Ring once more?"

"It makes a difference to me!" I said. "They never hurt anyone."

Sauron watched me carefully, then nodded.

At least he seemed willing to bargain. Of course, he was right -- what difference would it make if he were to allow two hobbits to live? Once he had the Ring in his possession he would have very little to fear from anyone. But something else was bothering me, a question that had plagued me since the first time I read the books. I probably would never get another chance to ask it.

"One other thing," I said, then took a breath and went on. "Why do you want the Ring so badly?"

"_Why_?" he repeated, his tone incredulous. "Are you a simpleton?"

"Hardly," I said. "I happened to get 2100 on my SATs, thank you very much. I guess I've just always had a problem wrapping my brain around this whole world domination thing. I mean, what's the _point_?"

"You understand nothing," Sauron said, his tone as freezing as his touch was warm.

"That may well be," I replied. "This isn't my world. But you didn't answer my question."

He frowned. "These lesser beings need a strong hand. I am the best suited to lead them, and the Ring will give me the power to do so."

"'Everybody wants to rule the world,'" I murmured, and he gave me a narrow look. "It's from a song," I explained.

Obviously he decided it was better to ignore that. "Very well. I've answered your questions -- now it's your turn."

_Quid pro quo, Clarice_, I thought, but knew better than to say anything out loud. The last thing I wanted to do was to try and explain Hannibal Lecter to Sauron. It might give him ideas.

"First you have to swear to let Frodo and Sam go free," I said. "Swear -- on the Ring."

That condition made his mouth pull to a taut line, but the lure of his prize was obviously too great for him not to agree. "I swear on the One Ring that no harm shall come to these two hobbits, and that they will be returned to their own people safely."

Well, I couldn't hope for much more than that. I knotted my fingers in the soft wool of my skirt, then said, "They were going to come in through the Black Gate, but that was too difficult. Gollum said he knew another way in, darker, more secret. I don't remember the name exactly -- something like _Cirith_ -- " I trailed off.

"_Ungol_," he finished, with an unpleasant smile. "Very good, Sarah. They should be easy enough to find."

I looked away from him, then took a sip of my water. I didn't know what else to do, and I hoped that maybe it would help to calm my roiling stomach.

Again Sauron murmured something under his breath, unintelligible words that sounded like the Black Speech. Perhaps he was issuing orders -- if the Ringwraiths truly were bound to him by the rings he had given them, then maybe he could communicate with them even when they weren't in the same room.

"You look weary," he said after a moment. "Perhaps you wish to return to your chambers?"

What I really wanted was to go home, to get out of this horrible place and away from the knowledge that I had just betrayed a whole world to save my own life. But I had a feeling that wouldn't happen any time soon, so I merely nodded and stood, feeling as if I were pushing against a gravity far heavier than I was used to. It would be good to lie down for a while.

The service certainly was seamless in Barad Dûr. No sooner had I stood and placed my goblet down on the side table, with Sauron looking pleased as the cat that swallowed the canary, than Nurelin appeared at the double doors that led to the corridor. Like the small orc who had come in previously, she kept her eyes to the ground, and her whole body seemed rigid with fear. Again I wondered what it was they saw when they looked on the Dark Lord -- then hoped I would never find out. It couldn't be anything good.

In silence she opened the doors for me, and I went through them. Almost immediately the pressure of Sauron's gaze seemed to lift from me, and I couldn't help taking a deep, gasping breath of air, glad to be free of his terrible presence.

Nurelin remained silent, although I could see that her fingers shook a little as she grasped the handle of the doors which opened into the main hallway. Perhaps even she wasn't used to being in the same room with the Dark Lord.

My chambers seemed almost like home, compared to the dark opulence of Sauron's own personal suite. This time Nurelin didn't even follow me inside, but instead waited in the hallway until I had entered the room, and then closed the doors behind me. I was glad -- the last thing I needed at that point was to try and make conversation with her.

Left to myself, I went immediately to the little alcove that held the bed, drew the curtains shut, and then collapsed on the heavy feather mattress. I was shaking with delayed reaction. I closed my eyes and forced myself to take deep, soothing breaths, even though my throat still hurt with every exhalation of air. _How long?_ I wondered. _How long before Frodo and Sam were taken?_

Probably Sauron had sent all the Ringwraiths save the Lord of the Nazgûl after the two hobbits. And even the former King of Angmar might have been enlisted to aid in the quest -- obviously his preparations for war would be rendered irrelevant if the Ring were recovered soon. And what would happen then? From the books I had always imagined some sort of horrible darkness creeping across the face of the earth, blotting out the sun and forcing everyone to hide from the shadow of Mordor. What had Eowyn called it? "Darkness inescapable"?

But it couldn't be all that bad, could it? Somehow Middle Earth had survived, even though Sauron had ruled it for a span of years.

_But it could be_, I thought. _You could just be rationalizing. You could be trying to make what you just did a little less worse._

I wanted to weep again, but I knew that was pointless. Tears wouldn't change anything.

_All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us_, Gandalf had told Frodo. Perhaps that wise wizard would have died before revealing any important information, but I was just a girl from Southern California, not a half-immortal being with immense powers. And, God, help me, I didn't want to die. A sorry reason for betraying this world, but the only one I had.

I rolled over onto my back and stared up at the dark ceiling of carved wood above me. For some reason I thought suddenly of my mother, of how she had always told me to think of what I was thankful for when things seemed bad or just weren't going my way. It had been her way of making me rethink my perspective on things; she came from a large family and had always worried that I, as an only child, would have a tendency toward selfishness. I shuddered at what she might think about what I had just done, but maybe she would have understood.

In any case, the simple mantra seemed a good way to try and reground myself.

"I'm thankful for this bed," I whispered. "I'm thankful for this warm dress. I'm thankful that I'm still alive." That one hurt, but I forced myself to go on. "I'm thankful that I'm clean and fed. I'm thankful -- " I trailed off. What else _did_ I have to be thankful for? "I'm thankful I'm not stuck in traffic on the 110 freeway." That seemed a little petty, but frankly, being immured in Barad Dûr actually was more appealing than sitting on the freeway at rush hour. "I'm thankful the Lord of the Nazgûl came to say good-bye to me. I'm thankful Sauron agreed to let Frodo and Sam go free."

At least I had achieved that much. He could have been lying, of course, but I got the feeling that even Sauron couldn't go back on an oath he'd sworn on the Ring. Only two lives, against all the others that would be affected once the Dark Lord had reclaimed the Ring, but it was something. And, as my father always says, something is better than nothing. Of course, since he was a lawyer most of the time he used that phrase in connection with a lawsuit settlement, but that didn't change the fact that it was true.

_Besides_, I thought, _you still don't know that what you've done has changed anything. Sauron was looking for Frodo and Sam the whole time they were traveling to Mordor, and he never found them. Hell, your buddy the Lord of the Nazgûl marched his armies right past them and didn't see a thing. Maybe you're tearing yourself up over nothing._

Feeling vaguely comforted by that thought, I rolled over on my side, slipped the pillow under my head, and let the weariness take me far away from here. A deep sleep rolled over me, and -- if only for a little while -- I escaped my thoughts of Sauron, or the Ring...or the fate of Middle Earth.


	7. With This Ring

Usually I don't do lengthy author's notes, as I'm trying to avoid the wrath of ff.n, but I just wanted to make a quick reply to Alethia's comments on Chapter 6. When Sarah asked Sauron exactly why he wanted the Ring, she wasn't looking for the simple answer. Obviously he wants it so he can rule Middle Earth. The question behind the question is _why_ is it so important for him to rule Middle Earth? What is it in him that drives him to this "will to dominate"? For example, what is it about Faramir's personality that led him to say "not if I found it by the road would I take it," when Boromir obviously tried to seize the Ring for his own ends (ostensibly to aid Gondor, but...)? Of course Sauron gave her a pat answer, but that wasn't exactly what she had in mind when she asked him in the first place. I hope that clears things up a bit.

* * *

Chapter 7: With This Ring...

A bustle beyond the drawn curtains woke me the next morning. I could hear Nurelin issuing a series of commands in loud whispers that were guaranteed to wake me up more than any regular speech would. There were a few grunts, and then a heavy thud. It sounded as if another bath had been brought up for me.

My throat still ached, and my mouth tasted nasty. I had slept in my gown, which was now a crumpled mess. With a small groan I sat up, pushing my hair back from my face.

Apparently even that sound was enough to signal Nurelin that I was awake, for the next moment the curtains parted to show the servant woman's angular, disapproving features. Sure enough, beyond her I could see a bathtub steaming in front of the hearth, although the orc porters seemed to have already made their exit.

"You have Lord Sauron's favor," she said, although her tone seemed to imply _but not mine_. "He has sent you gifts."

_Gifts_? I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and stood. Muscles I hadn't even realized I'd stressed the day before protested my every movement, but a hot bath should help with that.

As I pushed past her out into the main area of the room I saw what she meant by "gifts." Several new gowns lay draped over the backs of chairs, and on the table itself a small chest stood open, revealing dark gleaming gems and the rich luster of gold.

OK, I'll admit it -- I'm a magpie. Anything sparkly, I'm immediately drawn to like iron filings to a magnet. So I made my way over to the display, ran an admiring hand over a gown of deep crimson silk velvet, and lifted a heavy collar of what looked like gold set with cabochon rubies to admire the workmanship. Who knows where Sauron might have gotten all this stuff, but I supposed if he'd had orcs raiding Gondor and its environs, not to mention his subject nations paying him tribute, then he must have accumulated a good amount of swag over the years.

And those orcs down in the Barad Dûr sweat shops must have been slaving away all day and all night to produce the gowns I saw. Besides the crimson velvet one, there was one in a deep charcoal gray banded with red and silver embroidery, a black silk dress much finer than the wool gown I currently wore, a black and red brocade piece with gold embroidered leaves all around the neckline and gold buttons down the front, and a final one in some amazing fabric that looked almost like molten silver, with silver knotwork picked out in freshwater pearls around the neckline and the huge hanging sleeves.

They were all magnificent. I wanted to pick each one up and inspect the fine embroidery, the tiny stitches on the main seams, the cut of each piece. But I had a feeling Nurelin wouldn't have much patience with my neurotic costumer behavior, so instead I just set the collar back in its chest, turned resolutely away from the gowns, and said, "They're beautiful."

She sniffed. If she'd been from my world she probably would have produced an old chestnut like "handsome is as handsome does," but she only said, "The bath water is getting cold. And your breakfast will be up in a bit." Then she made the sketchiest of curtsies and went out. I got the impression she would have liked to slam the door but didn't dare.

I wondered what had put her nose so out of joint. Probably just the mere fact that Sauron had showered all this largesse on me. It didn't make me feel any better about what I'd done the day before -- if anything, the outpouring of gifts only increased my guilt.

_Blood money_, I thought, even as I drew off my wrinkled gown and draped it over the only chair not already occupied by a fancier replacement. Still, I knew I couldn't refuse the gifts Sauron had given me, although I couldn't help wondering what he might bestow upon me if he actually did manage to recover the ring.

It was probably better not to know. I sank gratefully into the warm water and tried to occupy my mind with the simple tasks of scrubbing myself clean and kneading my scalp with the new shampoo Nurelin had brought. Well, "shampoo" was a little generous. It was more a thin liquid smelling of chamomile and other herbs I couldn't identify, but it did a much better job of cleaning my hair than the rough bar of soap I had used the other day.

After my bath I pulled on one of the clean shifts Nurelin had left along with the gowns and sat in front of the fire, combing out my damp hair and worrying. As much as I kept telling myself to stop brooding over the situation, I couldn't help it. Where were Frodo and Sam now? Were they still struggling to find a way up into Mordor? Or had one of the Nazgûl already located them and snatched them up? How could I even hope that two hobbits might be able to avoid such horrible scrutiny? Now that the Ringwraiths knew where to look, surely it was only a matter of time before they were found.

...and so on. At times like these I really wished I figure out a way to just shut my brain off for a while, but it kept nagging at me, worrying the problem like a dog with a bone. Even after I judged my hair dry enough and stood, going over to the new wardrobe that had been provided for me, my thoughts kept chasing after one another.

Red seemed appropriate, although maybe it should really have been a dress with a scarlet "B" for "Betrayer." I chose the crimson velvet gown and pulled it on, noting as I fastened it that the buttons appeared to be carved of rough garnets. Again the workmanship impressed me, especially when you considered that there were no sewing or embroidery machines in Middle Earth. Every bit of it had to have been done by hand. I actually enjoyed hand embroidery; my grandmother had taught me when I was about ten, and I'd kept up with it ever since. It gave me something to do while watching TV. At any rate, since I'd done it myself I knew approximately how long it would have taken to stitch the silver and black knotwork that decorated the low curved neckline of the gown and edged the long, tight sleeves that covered part of my hands.

The high cupboard across the room proved to be a wardrobe. I carefully gathered up the other gowns and hung them on the T-shaped hangers of dark wood I found there, then reflected that it was a good thing I wasn't a blonde. Mordor's somber color scheme worked well enough with my dark hair and blue eyes, but all that black and red probably wouldn't have done much for someone with light hair.

After that there wasn't much to do except sort through the contents of the jewel box Nurelin had left behind. Again, blacks and reds seemed to predominate: garnets, rubies, onyx, black pearls, set in either gold or silver. It might have been white gold, but I sort of doubted it. I remembered reading in my decorative arts text that white gold actually hadn't come into use until the late Victorian period, since the alloy hadn't been perfected until then.

Whatever the case, it was all beautiful, but the thought of wearing any of it troubled me. Perhaps the original owners had been killed for it -- some of the pieces had the burnish of great age, and I had the feeling the jewelry hadn't been made specifically for me, unlike the clothing. But the richness of the gown practically screamed for some sort of ornament, so I compromised and chose a silver necklace with blood-colored drops of garnets hanging from delicate leaf-like pendants and left it at that.

Movement outside the window caught my eye, and I looked out just in time to see the dark shape of a winged Rider disappearing around a corner of the building. Immediately my heart began to pound away again, although I tried to tell myself that there could have been a very good reason for one of the Ringwraiths to return to Barad Dûr, a reason that didn't necessarily have to be the capture of Frodo and Sam. Still, I couldn't fight the feeling of disquiet that clutched at my stomach and made the skin on the back of my neck crawl.

It was at this inopportune time that Nurelin returned with my breakfast, although at that point I certainly didn't have much of an appetite. Then again, better her than one of the Ringwraiths come to take me to an audience with Sauron.

I thanked her for the food, to which she gave me a sour look and another sniff before departing. Probably she was getting tired of having to fetch and carry for me. That thought led me to wonder exactly what her duties had been before getting assigned to waiting on me hand and foot. Maybe before I came on the scene she had attended visiting heads of state and that sort of thing. If that were the case, then I could see why she might think she'd come down in the world.

She'd brought more fresh-baked bread, this time with honey and butter, as well as another apple. A small pitcher of water and a smaller flask of hard cider accompanied the food. Despite my unease, I made myself eat a little bit of everything, and I drank the hard cider as well, even though it felt strange to be drinking alcohol at that hour of the morning. I'd never been the type to party all night and continue the second I woke up the next day. Mike's friend Drew always used to say, "Beer -- it's not just for breakfast anymore," thinking he was being witty, but the comment just proved to me what a hopeless dork he really was.

The cider actually tasted pretty good, and the slight feeling of well-being it gave was even better. Time stretched on, and I began to think that my worries of earlier that morning had been unfounded. After all, there had to be a hundred and one reasons why one of the Nazgûl would return to Sauron's stronghold. As usual, I was just jumping to conclusions.

Then my door swung open, and it wasn't Nurelin who stood there. Instead, I saw the Lord of the Nazgûl waiting for me.

My heart leapt for a second as I recognized him, but then my brain caught up and realized he could only be there for one reason.

"Lord Sauron wishes to see you immediately," he said.

_No_, I thought. _Not so soon. How could they have found Frodo and Sam so soon?_ But I couldn't reply; my throat was too tight with guilt and anxiety. So I just nodded and followed him down the hallway, through the corridors of Barad Dûr until we reached the audience chamber once more. No cozy little chat in Sauron's private suite this time, obviously.

We entered the room, and I immediately saw the figures of the two hobbits huddling in terror at the foot of the dais that held Sauron's throne. The Dark Lord himself stood on the lowest step, looking down at the two with that gloating expression I despised so much. Then he raised his head as the Lord of the Nazgûl and I entered the chamber. He smiled.

"Your knowledge has already borne fruit, Sarah," he said. "The halflings were seized just outside the Morgul Vale."

Seized by guilt and fear, I stared down at the two hobbits. They were so _small_. Now, of course I knew that they were supposed to be between three and four feet tall or thereabouts, but it's one thing to read that fact in a book and quite another to see it right in front of your eyes. Of course, it didn't help that Sauron possessed such inhuman height, thus making them look that much smaller.

One of the hobbits turned ever so slightly to cast a stricken look over his shoulder toward me. I guessed he must be Frodo; he looked to be the taller of the two, and although his face was pinched and pale with fear and probably a combination of hunger and weariness, his features were regular and rather handsome in their own right. His brown eyes widened slightly; probably a young woman who looked like an elf maid was the last thing he had expected to see in Barad Dûr.

"So you've won," I said bitterly.

"Almost," he said, still with that terrible smile. "Sarah, take the Ring from Frodo and bring it to me."

Aghast, I could only stare back at him for a moment. I wanted to scream at him, _Take it yourself!_, but even as the traitorous thought blazed through my mind I felt the slightest constriction of my throat. I coughed.

Behind me the Lord of the Nazgûl said quietly, "Do as he says, Sarah." He paused, then added, "Please."

Was that his way of telling me that compliance was the only way to survive? I knew that sad fact all too well, but it still heartened me to realize that he didn't want Sauron to hurt me any more than he had.

With knees that felt so shaky I wasn't sure they would continue to support me, I crossed the ten paces or so that separated me from the hobbits. Then I sank to the floor next to them, my crimson skirts spreading out around me like a pool of blood.

"You can't," whispered the second hobbit, who had to be Sam. "How can you give it to him?"

"I don't have a choice," I replied, my voice tight and sounding completely unlike my own. Sam stared at me with an expression of unending reproach twisting his plain, honest features. The sight seemed to tear at my heart, and I forced myself to look away, to transfer my attention to Frodo.

He had the aspect of someone caught in his worst nightmare. Well, I suppose he was. Certainly this must be the moment he had feared and dreaded ever since he had agreed to take on the burden of the Ring.

"I have to take it," I said, and Frodo shook his head. "He'll kill us both if I don't."

"He'll kill us anyway," he gasped. Sweat stood out on his forehead; his curly brown hair stuck to it in odd twists and whorls.

"No, he won't," I replied. "I made him swear that he wouldn't. You and Sam can go safely home."

"I don't believe you."

"She speaks the truth," cut in Sauron. "You must only do this one small thing, and then you can return to your own people."

Frodo's terrified gaze lifted to the Dark Lord, and he paled visibly. I could only imagine what he must see in place of the inhumanly beautiful figure I somehow was able to perceive.

"You don't have to do anything," I said. "Just let me take it from you. All you have to do is hold still."

A deep shudder went through the hobbit. Part of me feared that he would reach out to claw me, to strike at me the second I tried to lift the Ring from around his neck. Would Sauron do anything if Frodo attacked me? Or would he look on in amusement until he tired of the game and stepped in to take his prize for himself?

I took a deep breath, then lifted a trembling hand to grasp the fine silver chain that was barely visible beneath the open collar of the hobbit's travel-stained shirt. It felt cool and light in my hand, and I remembered that it had been made by the Elves in Rivendell. At first I thought I would just snap it, but if it was Elvish work then there was a distinct possibility it wouldn't break so easily. Instead, I reached out with my other hand and lifted it over Frodo's head. From the middle of the chain dangled a golden ring, a smooth circle of precious metal that gleamed in the reflected light of the torches that ringed the walls. As it came away from his body Frodo made a muffled sound of agony, and he shut his eyes, but he did not try to take it from me.

I had thought it would be heavy. But it felt no different than any other wide band of gold would have -- in fact, in width and shape it didn't look that different from my father's wedding ring.

"Bring it to me," commanded Sauron, and I stood.

For a second I paused, holding the Ring. The two hobbits cowered before the dais, and I looked past them to see the Lord of the Nazgûl watching me with impassive gray eyes. His mouth tightened slightly, and I thought I saw his gloved hands clench at his side. But that was the only movement he made.

I had the wild thought that perhaps I could put on the Ring and keep it from Sauron that way, but I knew that would never work. He would be swift to retaliate, and since I had no real idea of even how to use its powers the act would be completely futile.

Slowly I moved toward him, feeling my velvet skirts like a dragging weight against my shaky legs. I stopped at the bottom step, which he descended to bring himself level with me -- or as level as he could be, considering the huge difference in our heights. Then he extended his left hand -- the ring finger on the right of course had been cut off centuries earlier.

"Place it on my finger," he said.

With shaking hands I slipped the Ring off its silver chain, and, in a terrible mockery of the wedding ceremonies from my own world, reached out and slid the band of gold onto the fourth finger of his left hand.

From behind me I could hear Frodo give a sudden despairing cry, as if he had been stabbed through the heart. For all I knew that might have been exactly what it felt like. The earth beneath my feet seemed to shake, and for a second I couldn't breathe. Not the terrible pressure Sauron had brought to bear on me previously -- no, it just felt as if all the air had suddenly been sucked out of the chamber, as if Sauron's reacquisition of the Ring had created a temporary vacuum.

I staggered, and he caught my arm with his other hand, the one that didn't bear the Ring. His grip loosened, and he raised my hand and brought it to his mouth. His lips felt almost scorching, but he broke the contact before his touch could burn me.

Still with that terrible, gloating smile, he said, "Thank you, Sarah."

Then he turned and raised his arms, so that the black robes fell away to reveal pale, muscled flesh. His triumphant cry made me lift my hands to cover my ears, and I wondered whether they could have heard his shout of victory all the way to Minas Tirith.

"Middle Earth is mine!"


	8. Unexpected Comfort

I had to bump this to M -- I hope everyone can still find it!

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Chapter 8: Unexpected Comfort

Then my legs finally failed me, and I sank to the ground, even as I closed my eyes to shut out the horrible sight of Sauron wearing the Ring. Any feeble words I might to try to summon couldn't possibly describe the terror that washed over me at that moment. Every breath seemed an agony, and the pounding of my heart felt like thunder. From somewhere far away I could hear a low moaning sound that faded into whimpers after a few seconds.

But then I felt someone's arms go around me, a brush of cold gloved fingers against my hand. The Lord of the Nazgûl.

He said, "My lord, let me take her from this place. She has given you what you wanted."

At his words I opened my eyes to see Sauron give me a considering glance, even as his mouth curved in a mocking smile. "This is true, my lord of Angmar. And what should I give you, as a gift for capturing the Ringbearer and his companion?"

Since he was behind me, I could not see the Lord of the Nazgûl's expression, but I thought I felt his body stiffen slightly. "All I do is in service to Mordor. I require nothing."

"How modest," Sauron replied. "Yet I would not like to see such a valuable service go unrewarded." The alien silver eyes settled on me, and I shuddered slightly. I wasn't exactly sure what possession of the Ring had done to him, but Sauron seemed..._more_, as if every aspect of his personality and being had been somehow amplified. Waves of power seemed to radiate out from him, even when he remained still. It was like standing next to a nuclear reactor.

"I know," he went on. "You seem to have some interest in this...girl. She is yours -- if you can even remember what to do with her."

The pressure of the Ringwraith's arms about me suddenly tightened, even as I tore my gaze away from Sauron's. From somewhere behind me I heard the Lord of the Nazgul's protest. "My lord, that is not necessary -- "

"I will be insulted if you do not take my gift, my lord of Angmar," was Sauron's reply. His tone sounded almost bland, but I could feel the malice behind it -- as no doubt the Lord of the Nazgûl could as well.

"As you wish, my lord." He stood then, lifting me back to my feet as easily as if I weighed nothing.

That gloating, malicious smile seemed to be a permanent fixture on the Dark Lord's face. He looked past the two of us to where the pair of hobbits still sat huddled on the floor, as if by making themselves as small as possible they somehow hoped to escape Sauron's notice. No such luck, of course -- Frodo made a small whimpering noise as the Dark Lord's gaze fastened on them, even though his next words appeared to be addressed to the Lord of the Nazgûl.

"On the morrow you will journey to Minas Tirith," Sauron said. "Take two legions with you. At that time you will return these -- " and the evil silvery glare flickered between the two hobbits for a second -- "to the rest of their companions. After that, their fate is their own concern. I will use this night to think on the terms I am prepared to offer the men of Gondor. You will travel in the morning, to show that the daylight no longer has any power over us. The races of Middle Earth need to be made to understand that the rules have changed."

The Lord of the Nazgûl inclined his head. "Your wishes will be carried out, my lord."

"I know." Finally his smile faded. "Leave me -- and see that the two halflings are given quarters for the night."

"Of course, my lord." At last the Ringwraith released me, turning toward the two hobbits, who of course did not appear to be reassured by having the Lord of the Nazgûl go to them instead of Sauron.

"Let me," I offered, and I pushed past him to kneel beside them once more. "We'll take you someplace where you can sleep, and then tomorrow you can go to Minas Tirith, to be with Gandalf and Pippin and Ara -- I mean, Strider." No point in mentioning Aragorn's name in front of Sauron; I couldn't remember how much the Dark Lord knew of Aragorn's true identity, and I didn't want to make matters any worse than they already were...if that was even possible.

The two hobbits stared at me with glassy brown eyes; they reminded me of a book I had once read called _Watership Down_ where the rabbits would get so terrified they'd just freeze in place. _Tharn_, I think is what they called it. Their fear was completely understandable and justified, but I had to get them out of here. I could only hope that they'd recover their composure a bit once they were away from Sauron's presence.

Then Sam slowly shook his head, as if trying to clear it. He reached out and took my proffered hand. His own grip felt strong despite his small size, his callused fingers ordinary and so very real. After a few seconds, Frodo also gave me a hand, and I stood, helping them to their feet.

As always the Lord of the Nazgûl's face held no real expression, but I thought I saw him give me a slight nod of approval. But he only said, "This way," and led us out of Sauron's audience chamber, the two hobbits clinging to my hands like a pair of children being helped across a busy street.

They were given a room not far from my own chamber, just a few doors down the same hallway. With the same seamless precision I had already seen in the Dark Lord's citadel, a meal waited for them, the same simple but tasty food I'd been eating over the past few days. After a bit of hesitation -- I had to reassure them that I'd been consuming the same fare for some time and hadn't suffered any ill effects -- they sat down to eat. It seemed they were doing about as well as could be expected, so I excused myself and went to meet the Lord of the Nazgûl, who had been waiting for me outside in the hallway. His presence had obviously flustered the hobbits, so I'd thought it better for me to see to them alone.

"Done playing nursemaid?" he asked. For the first time I thought I saw a hint of a smile on that stern mouth.

"Well, what did you expect?" I replied. "Their whole world has come crashing down around them." _Because of me_, I thought, but didn't say aloud.

"Perhaps not as much will change as you might think," he replied cryptically.

I shot him a dubious look, but I suddenly found I didn't have much heart for a sarcastic reply, for we had arrived at the entrance to my own room. How seriously had the Ringwraith taken Sauron's command that I be his "gift"? I couldn't deny the fact that I had come to feel something for the Lord of the Nazgûl during the time I had spent here, but what? Certainly I hadn't thought there could be anything between us -- the age difference alone was enough to stop me, let alone the fact that he was supposed to be an undead wraith who hadn't functioned as a living man for more than a thousand years. At any rate, it was also more than a little annoying that once I had given Sauron the Ring, he saw no further use for me than as a toy he might bestow upon a favorite. That was the sort of behavior that could set feminism back an order of magnitude.

Apparently the Lord of the Nazgûl meant to keep up appearances if nothing else, because he pushed open the door and followed me inside, then shut the door behind him. Tapers had been lit against the fall of darkness, and the curtains at the window were now shut.

Mouth suddenly dry, I continued on into the room and made my way to the table, where a pitcher of water sat, obviously prepared against my return. I poured some into the pewter goblet that had also been left for me and took a few soothing sips. Then I looked over at him.

He stood a few feet away, watching me carefully. I couldn't tell what he might be thinking. Usually I can get a fairly good read on whether someone is attracted to me or not, but this was like looking at a wall. I recalled Sauron's mocking words and wondered whether the Lord of the Nazgûl was even capable of having physical relations with a woman.

To be perfectly honest, it had been a while for me, too. Not a thousand years, of course, but I'd definitely entered what my friend Lisa called "born-again virgin" territory -- according to her, if you went more than a year without getting laid, then you might as well start calling yourself a virgin all over again. What with school and everything, I just hadn't had much time for trying to meet guys. Besides, the relationship I'd had through most of my sophomore year had ended messily, and I'd just decided that it was better to wait until after I was out of school to try again. At any rate, considering the fact that I went to a design school, there weren't a whole lot of prospects for me to choose from -- most of the guys there seemed to be more interested in the other guys, frankly. Not that I had a problem with that, but it did sort of narrow the field considerably. After a while it was just easier to stop looking.

Anyway, none of my (admittedly) narrow experience was of much help in my current situation. Even if the Lord of the Nazgûl were only as old as he appeared to me, that was much older than anyone I'd ever dated; my one and only "older man" had been twenty-four to my nineteen, and that really didn't count.

The silence grew more tense. He apparently was waiting for some signal from me, and I sure as hell didn't know what I should be doing. Should I make a move? Tell him that it was all right -- I'd been attracted to him all along? I wasn't sure that was even the truth; I'd been grateful for the protection he had tried to offer me, and I had felt the beginnings of some warmth toward him, but it was big leap from that to jumping into the sack together. If that was even his intention.

I took another sip of water to make it seem as if I were doing _something_ at least, and then I asked, "So do you have a first name? A given name?"

My words seemed to surprise him; he blinked, then frowned slightly. "A name?" he replied. "Yes, I had a name...once."

"Do you even remember it?" I mean, it was a possibility that he had gone so long just being referred to as Angmar or the Witchking or what-have-you that his original name might have completely escaped his mind.

He lifted an eyebrow. "When I lived in the world of men I was known as Gorendil. Why do you ask?"

_So I know which name to scream when we're going at it_, I thought, but of course I didn't dare say any such a thing out loud. "I don't know," I replied. "I just thought it would be nice to know if you had a real name. 'My lord of Angmar' is awfully formal, don't you think?"

"Perhaps." He took a few steps toward me, then drew off his gloves and tossed them onto the table. I had never seen him without them before, and though he was as pale as if his skin hadn't seen the sun for years, his hands looked strong and experienced, crisscrossed with scars from battles long past.

"Do you mind if I call you Gorendil?" I asked, refusing to let the conversation die. I'd had some tough first dates before, but this was getting ridiculous.

He shook his head. "No..." he said slowly. "It has been an age of Men since I've heard that name spoken aloud. I would like it -- Sarah." The cool gray eyes caught mine then, and all of a sudden I felt it like a burning flash through my chest, the strength of his desire sudden and shocking as a bolt of lightning on a hot August afternoon. Before I could fully register what was happening, he moved toward me and took me in his arms, his mouth pressing against mine with almost bruising force. His lips were cool but seemed to gain some warmth the longer he kissed me, and then I felt his tongue touch mine, bringing with it an oddly clean metallic taste.

I didn't bother to protest. The desire was rising in me as well, the familiar warmth spreading through my body. Although the sensations weren't unknown, somehow they seemed amplified -- after all, this wasn't some inexperienced boy close to my own age but an mature man who also was finally able to release the pent-up passions of a thousand years. His hands reached up to cup my face and then moved on to catch in my unbound hair. I pushed myself against him, feeling the strength of the body under the voluminous black robes -- and noticing also how aroused he was. So much for that particular concern.

With a sudden swift movement he gathered me up in his arms and carried me to the bed with that same effortless strength I had already seen in him. Deft fingers moved to unfasten the buttons on the front of my gown, and I lay there as he stripped the garment from me, as well as the shift that lay beneath it.. I knew that I couldn't do anything to stop him -- not that I really wanted to. He buried his face between my breasts, a low moan seeming to struggle its way out from deep inside him. It was odd not to feel any breath against my skin as his mouth closed on one of my nipples, but the strangeness of that lack soon dissipated as the waves of pleasure began to wash over me. I could hear myself gasping -- my breasts had always been sensitive -- and then reached up to pull at the heavy clasp that held his over-robe shut. I wanted to feel his skin against mine.

He paused for a moment, lifting his mouth from me, and tore the robe off, and the lighter-weight garment he wore beneath it. Like his hands, the rest of his body was pale as well, but sturdy and strong, with the sort of muscles you'd see on someone who did heavy labor for most of his life but who certainly had never seen the inside of a gym. A livid scar cut across half his chest, and I wondered how he could have gotten it.

But then I didn't have time to think about anything else after that, for he lay on top of me, the heavy cool length of his body pressing against mine, even as I felt the thrust that drove him inside me. I gasped aloud, and clutched his back, fingernails digging into the hard muscles that lay beneath the cold skin. It had been a while, but I found that didn't seem to matter -- I was more aroused than I could ever remember being before. No fumbling in the back seat of a car or a quick tumble in a narrow bed, all the while hoping that a roommate wouldn't choose an inopportune moment to return, could ever compare to this. His body moved in rhythm with mine, even as he filled the empty spaces inside me. I held him, feeling the pressure building within, marveling at the strength of the muscles beneath my clutching fingers.

I came with a scream, and a few seconds later he climaxed as well, a groan seeming to wrench its way out of the very depths of his gut. He collapsed against me, his body shaking, although again no breath lifted that solid chest. I wanted to stay that way forever, with my arms around him and his weight pressed against me, with him still inside me. Gently I laid my lips against his jaw line and kissed the cool flesh there. His skin felt oddly smooth, and after a moment I realized it was because I could sense none of the usual stubble most men would have begun to develop by that time of night.

After an eternity -- or maybe it was only a few seconds later -- he carefully lifted himself off me and rolled over onto the bed. I turned over on my side and propped myself up on one elbow, looking at the fine angular bones of his face. Dark lashes swept against his cheek as he closed his eyes briefly. Oddly, I felt none of the usual post-coital messiness I'd usually experienced after those times I'd had sex when I was on the pill and had dispensed with using a condom.

I thought, _Was it good for you, too?_ and had to suppress the urge to giggle. How silly and trite. None of my previous sexual experiences could begin to compare with what had just passed between the two of us. All that time it seemed as if I'd just been playing with sex -- now I finally understood what it meant to have someone make love to me.

He opened his eyes to look at me, and finally he smiled, the lines at the corners of his eyes crinkling as he did so.

"Are you pleased with Sauron's gift?" I asked teasingly.

"Beyond pleased," he said. One hand lifted to brush a stray tendril of hair away from my cheek, and then slid down along the curve of my face in a disarming caress. Almost immediately I could feel myself begin to become aroused once more. "And you?"

"I never thought I'd be so happy to be given away like a toaster at a bank opening," I replied, then smiled at his obvious confusion. "Very pleased. If you're up to it, I can show you exactly _how_ pleased I really am." And I took his hand and moved it to cup my breast once more.

"Luckily, I am blessed with tremendous powers of recuperation," he commented, then drew me toward him once more.

What followed was equally pleasurable and even more protracted, until I fell against the pillows, gasping for air and feeling as if every molecule of my body had somehow been spent. Part of me wondered whether the ancient Numenoreans had discovered some sort of Tantric sex. Not that old J.R.R. would have ever written about _that_ -- the guy was a genius, but sensuality wasn't exactly his strong point, to say the least.

"Enough?" asked Gorendil, giving me a lazy smile.

"For now," I replied, pulling the blankets up around me. "Right now I feel as if I could sleep for a hundred years."

"Sleep," he repeated, in an oddly wistful tone of voice. "I haven't slept for an age of Men and more -- I no longer require it." Then he reached out to push the covers a little more closely in around my bare shoulders. "But I will stay here as you do so."

"Thank you," I murmured, the weariness reaching up to pull me under. How sad that he couldn't even find refuge in sleep anymore. But I knew I needed it, and let myself slip into welcome oblivion. My last thought, though, was not of the man who lay beside me, but the Dark Lord who had brought us together. How ironic that he had done so probably just to mock Gorendil and hurt me, and yet somehow had given both of us the one thing we truly wanted...someone to hold, to gather strength from in the coming darkness.


	9. The Road to Minas Morgul

In which we discover why air freshener was invented. ;-) Seriously, thanks for all the continuing reviews -- I'm glad I made some of you happy with this 'ship. (And really, I'm just doing this for fun, so while I'm trying to be as consistent with the books and films as I can, it's certainly not meant to be canon by any stretch of the imagination!)

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Chapter 9: The Road to Minas Morgul

I awoke to find myself alone in bed, but I didn't have to look far to find Gorendil; he sat on a chair next to the table and had just finished pulling on one high black boot. Last night I had been so distracted I hadn't even noticed when the boots came off, but good thing he'd had the presence of mind to remove them or things could have been even more interesting than they already were.

"Going somewhere?" I asked.

"Lord Sauron instructed that I ride in the morning to Gondor. My legions await outside."

Damn. I'd forgotten about that part. No honeymoon for us, apparently, and with the black garments of a Ringwraith he'd put on his sober expressionless face once more. I sat up, clutching the sheets against my bare breasts. Although apparently once I'd given him the Ring I was no longer of any importance to Sauron, I still didn't much look forward to being left alone in Barad Dûr with him. Well, alone with him and about ten thousand orcs, Easterlings, Haradrim, and various assorted lackeys, but you get my point.

"Can I come with you?" I asked, not even realizing I was going to ask the question until the words had left my mouth.

He stood and buckled a long black belt around his waist, slipping one end up and over the buckle in a complicated knot. Once he was finished, he pointed at a mound of black clothing that lay piled on the chair next to him. "Can you be ready to ride?"

In a flash I was out of bed, not even worrying about my nakedness. I thought I saw a quick darting of his gaze toward my breasts, but Gorendil's expression never changed. The pile of clothing turned out to be a long divided tunic with a high neck and bell-shaped sleeves, paired with a loose pair of breeches similar in cut to harem pants. A belt and a pair of high soft black leather boots completed the outfit.

"The smallest clothing from the Haradrim cavalry that I could find," he explained, pulling on his gloves. "There not being time to have riding clothes made for you. You _can_ ride, can't you?"

I swallowed. The last time I'd been on a horse had been when I was going through my "horse" phase when I was around eight years old -- and as I recalled, the phase hadn't lasted very long. "Of course," I lied stoutly. After all, how hard could it be?

He gave me that same sidelong dubious look I recognized from the day before but said nothing.

"Is it all right?" I asked, slipping on the breeches. They felt like a blend of linen and cotton, strong and soft at the same time. "I mean, won't Sauron mind?"

"He saw no reason to refuse my request," the Lord of the Nazgûl replied. "What further need did he have of you?"

Well, that was rude, but I didn't bother to argue the point. After all, it was true. Now that Sauron had the Ring, I was superfluous. And possibly my presence would make the ride to Minas Tirith easier on Sam and Frodo. I had no idea whether there would be the opportunity for future nookie with the Ringwraith, but a girl could hope. After all, they'd have to stop at night to rest the horses and the regular foot soldiers, even if Gorendil could go for days without sleep.

I slipped on my bra -- no way I was going to jog up and down on a horse for days and days without giving the girls some support -- and then slid the tunic over my head. It was a little too big, but the belt helped cinch it in, and overall the outfit was pretty comfortable. Even the boots were only about a size larger than my own feet, leading me to wonder whether the Haradrim had a lot of short soldiers or whether they had their own equivalent of Eowyn hiding somewhere in the ranks.

Then I was ready, and the Lord of the Nazgûl indicated that I should follow him downstairs, out to the courtyard, where a huge company of mixed Haradrim, Easterlings, and Uruk-hai waited for us. I saw Frodo and Sam as well, perched miserably on a pair of black ponies.

"Good morning," I said cheerfully. Sam looked aghast at my blithe manner, and Frodo bit his lip and looked down at the pommel of his saddle. Of course, they had no way of knowing that I'd spent the evening before getting the lay of the century. That sort of thing always manages to improve your outlook on life. "Why the long faces? You're going home."

"Are you mad?" Sam burst out. "He has the Ring!" Then he immediately closed his mouth and glanced around fearfully, as if worried that Sauron would show up just because his name had been uttered out loud.

"Well, there is that," I admitted. "But look -- the world hasn't ended, has it? The sun's still out -- well, sort of." True to form, Mount Doom was belching out its peculiar mixture of smoke and haze, and the sky was a muddy brown. But you could see a thin ghost of the sun through the smog if you looked closely enough.

Sam made a sound of disgust, and Frodo looked as if he wanted to be sick. I guess I couldn't blame them -- they obviously had a very different view of the situation than I did.

"Sarah." He spoke quietly, but somehow the Lord of the Nazgûl's voice carried clearly through the din in the courtyard.

I turned to see him standing next to his own huge black stallion and a smaller dapple-gray mare that was obviously intended for me. She was a pretty thing; if we'd been back in my own world I would have said she had some Arabian in her, judging by her delicate dish-nosed face and slender ankles. But then I noticed the saddle, and its complete lack of a saddlehorn and minimal pommel. Uh-oh. I'd managed Western-style riding because I was always able to hang on to the saddlehorn if necessary, but I saw right away that that wouldn't be an option here. Well, I supposed it could have been worse. At least it wasn't a side saddle.

Setting my teeth, I approached the horse from the left -- at least I remembered that much -- grimly put one foot in a stirrup, grasped what pommel there was, and attempted to throw my leg over the horse's back in what I'd hoped would be one smooth, practiced motion. Instead, my knee bumped against the side of the saddle, and I began to fall backward, only to feel Gorendil catch me and boost me all the way back up. From somewhere behind me I heard someone snigger. It could have been Sam; it could also have been any one of the watching Haradrim or Easterlings.

"Of course you can ride," said the Lord of the Nazgûl with a frown.

"Different saddle," I said glibly, making sure my other foot was wedged well into the stirrup.

"Ah," he said, but his stern expression never changed. Then he leaned closer to me and said in an undertone, "Grip with your knees."

"It's all coming back to me now," I replied.

At that he actually did smile outright. I wanted to lean down and kiss him right then and there, but I thought that might have freaked out even the Mordor troops -- after all, it would have looked as if I were just kissing air, not to mention the fact that the Lord of the Nazgûl wasn't exactly the sort of person who regularly got public displays of affection. So I had to settle for a quick smile in return before he went to mount his own huge horse.

From there we rode out of the courtyard, Gorendil in the lead, with me at his side and the hobbits following immediately behind. Four more Ringwraiths rode up to flank the hobbits. Beyond them stretched Haradrim cavalry, then rank after rank of Easterlings on foot, with the Uruk-hai bringing up the rear, accompanied by huge wagons carrying supplies and dragged by enormous lizard-like beasts that appeared to be the Mordor equivalent of oxen.

I'd never been good at giving estimations of crowds, and it would have been impossible for me to gauge the extent of the force that Sauron was sending forth into Gondor, since I rode at its head and it ranged behind me like the long snaking length of a Chinese dragon. But it was obvious they numbered in the thousands, possibly ten thousand or more. When I thought I'd be able to turn around in the saddle and look over my shoulder without completely falling off, I hazarded a glance backward and couldn't even tell where the convoy ended. It seemed to stretch forever along the hard-packed road that led out from Barad Dûr.

After some hours of riding, during which I gripped the horse with my knees as best I could and wished that I hadn't overtaxed my inner thigh muscles quite so much the night before, we came to a fork in the road and headed slightly south and west. I turned to Gorendil with questions in my eyes.

He said, "We take the direct route, on to Cirith Ungol and the road through the Morgul Vale. From there we will cross into Ithilien and head southward to Minas Tirith."

"How long is that going to take?" At the moment I didn't feel as if I could stay in the saddle for much longer.

"Some four days. The first leg is the longest -- we will continue on until we reach the Morgul Vale, which still lies at least half a day ahead of us. There we will rest before moving into Ithilien."

Great. So I was looking forward to at least another six or so hours on this damn horse. My thighs screamed at me, but I tried to ignore them by lifting the water bag I'd found attached to the saddle and taking a long drink. And from what I could recall, Minas Morgul hadn't exactly been a garden spot, even if it was the place Gorendil called home. Still, if there was someplace I could lay my head for a few hours, I wasn't going to argue. If I could even walk once he'd pried me out of the saddle, that is.

The Lord of the Nazgûl seemed little inclined to conversation; he stared straight ahead, his face mostly hidden by the heavily cowled hood of his cloak. No doubt he thought it would be inappropriate for him to be seen talking to me. My presence was probably grounds enough for curiosity on the part of the troops, and I could only imagine what they must think was the reason for my being there in the first place. Maybe they thought I was another prisoner like the hobbits, but that wouldn't explain why I rode next to the Witchking. It was obvious that the other Ringwraiths kept their flanking positions around the hobbits to maintain a careful watch on them -- where the hell they thought Frodo and Sam might go, I had no idea, but even the casual observer could tell that the Nazgûl were keeping an eye on the hobbits and not the Elvish-looking young woman who rode at the head of the company.

Sauron had mentioned "terms" the day before, so I supposed that the delivery of the hobbits was secondary and that Gorendil's true mission was to tell the lords of Gondor exactly what would be expected of them as Mordor's vassals. I could only hope it wouldn't be anything too terrible, but that was probably both naive and self-serving. Sauron now had the power to make them do almost anything he wanted; even the thousands of troops that followed in our wake had to be mostly for show. If he wanted to, I had no doubt that Sauron could knock down the walls of Minas Tirith at a distance with the power of the Ring.

But it wouldn't come to that. It couldn't. Gandalf and Aragorn and the rest of them had more sense than to challenge Sauron openly. Surely it would be more important to do whatever was necessary to make sure the people of Gondor and Rohan and everywhere else in Middle Earth wouldn't suffer too much through Sauron's rule.

With those cheery thoughts to occupy me, I clung grimly to the saddle as night fell and we continued on through the darkness. At some point the road began to slope upward, and we followed a set of severe switchbacks that cut through the barren hillsides. Thank God my horse knew where it was going, or at least had the sense to follow Gorendil's huge black stallion. I had dropped to the Lord of the Nazgûl's rear as the road narrowed and climbed, and the enormous host behind me no doubt stretched out even longer as the ranks compressed to accommodate the constricted path.

Somewhere off to my left I could see reddish lights, lights that as we drew closer proved to be torches along the parapets of a huge fortress. This must be Cirith Ungol. I breathed a sigh of relief; it wouldn't be far to our destination now.

We began to descend, and that was when the smell hit me. Sickly sweet at first, it transformed as we grew closer, turning into the scent of things long dead. I coughed and raised a hand to my nose, trying to block the noisome odor, but that didn't help much. The air seemed to fill with an odd greenish glow, like the weird bioluminescence of sea creatures that live so deep in the trenches that they have to generate their own light.

To either side of the road, which had begun to widen again, I saw flat fields of what looked like unearthly flowers, the apparent source of the light. Belatedly I remembered the descriptions of the Morgul Vale from the books, but those descriptions hadn't really gotten across the unbelievable smell, or how eerie that corpse light really was.

Choking past my hand, I said to Gorendil, "How could you possibly live here? It smells like a thousand dead rats trapped under a house!"

The hood turned toward me. I couldn't see his face, but I thought I caught a gleam from his eyes in the strange greenish light. "Does it? One can get used to anything, I suppose."

I didn't see how anyone could get used to that stink, not even after a thousand years, but I decided not to argue. How I'd ever be able to sleep surrounded by that smell, I had no idea, but maybe it wasn't so bad once you were inside the tower.

Gorendil and Sauron had always referred to it as Minas Ithil, which I remembered had been its original name, but in the books Gandalf and the others had referred to it as Minas Morgul, the tower of sorcery. Not exactly the sort of place I'd have wanted to camp out for the night; in a way it was even worse than Barad Dûr. Compared to the charnel-house odor of the corpse-flower fields, the acrid scent of Mount Doom smelled like a good day in an Illuminations store.

I didn't see how Minas Morgul, which was considerably smaller than Barad Dûr, could possibly accommodate all the troops the Nazgûl lord had brought with him, but as I glanced back once more it appeared that part of the company had broken off and was heading up the hillside toward Cirith Ungol. That made sense; some of the troops would bunk up there while the rest of us stayed down at Gorendil's stronghold, and then we'd rejoin and head out the next day.

Gates of barred black iron opened to let us into the citadel, and I followed Gorendil as we entered a courtyard lit by the dim flare of a few halfhearted torches. Once he'd dismounted he had to help me off my own horse -- my legs were so stiff at that point I couldn't even manage to swing my right leg over the animal's back. He lifted me down, then held me for a moment to make sure I could still stand upright.

"I'm all right," I said, even though I was hanging on to one stirrup to make sure I wouldn't fall over. "Just tell me our accommodations are on the ground floor."

I thought I saw a faint flash of teeth within the shadow of his hood, but in the dim light it was impossible to be certain. "Unfortunately, no. But I will assist you."

And he did give me his arm and help me into the tower, supporting me as I wearily climbed the endless steps and mused on what a wonderful invention the elevator was. Before we disappeared inside I saw the hobbits taken away to some other chamber in the tower by two of the remaining Ringwraiths. I wished I'd had time to bid them goodnight and give them any further reassurances they might need, but Gorendil had moved too swiftly for me to get a chance to say anything.

The smell did seem to be a little better inside; it was still present, but much more faint, like the last lingering dregs of some repulsive potpourri. We stopped in a circular room high in the tower, sparsely furnished, with a table under one window, several bookcases to either side of it, and a low bench on the opposite wall. In the center of the room stood a column of black stone, and on top of it sat a crystalline sphere that seemed to glow with its own cloudy light. One of those crystal-ball gadgets whose name escaped me at the moment, no doubt, but even though it was the sort of thing that immediately drew your attention, I knew better than to go and look into it.

Nowhere did I see anything remotely resembling a bed, and I sighed.

"My chambers," Gorendil explained. "It seemed logical for you to stay with me here, but I must admit to a certain lack of sleeping arrangements."

"That's all right," I said, eyeing the bench. "I'm so tired I could probably fall asleep standing up, like a horse."

"I can do better than that," he replied, and sat down at one end of the bench. "Come here."

So I went to him, then lay down, placing my head in his lap as he'd indicated. He drew his cloak across me, and I shifted my weight a fraction, trying to find a marginally better position. It wasn't terribly comfortable, but at least his legs weren't quite as hard as the wooden seat. Besides, at least I was with him, feeling the warmth of his cloak settle around me, the weight of his hand as he stroked my hair. Despite the odd circumstances, I felt a sudden rush of well-being, of affection toward this quiet, solemn man. Probably there were a thousand other things he should have been attending to, but instead he had brought me someplace safe and obviously intended to stay here with me all night to make sure I got some much-needed sleep.

Maybe it was because I was so tired and not really watching what I was saying. Then again, a lot of the time we say the truest things when the barriers are down. Whatever the reason, I nestled my head against his hand, then murmured, "I love you."

Immediately his fingers stilled against my hair. "You don't even know me," he said, after a heavy pause.

I couldn't take back what I said, and I found I didn't even want to. True, I didn't know much about love, but I knew I had feelings for him that I'd never experienced with anyone else. "You're right," I replied. "I only know that you sheltered me on the trip to Mordor...that you tried to protect me from Sauron...that you made love to me last night in a way that makes me think you're not completely indifferent yourself. Maybe that's a stupid basis for love. But that's just how I feel."

All this time I had been lying on my side, my face pointed away from him. I turned over so that I could look up into the depths of his hood, although all I really saw was the outline of his jaw and the thin shape of his lips. "Don't make me take it back," I whispered.

His mouth tightened, and then he lifted me up against him. "Never that," he murmured, bringing his lips against mine. "Never that, Sarah."

I clung to him then, letting him hold me. I wanted him, but because of my weariness and the uncomfortable bench I had to content myself with the simple feel of his body against mine, the strength of his arms around me. We stayed that way for a long time, until finally sleep rose up to claim me, and I fell into oblivion beneath the lord of Morgul Vale's watchful eyes.


	10. Encounter in Ithilien

This may answer some questions...or raise others. In any case, have fun, and thanks for all your wonderful reviews. Nothing makes my day like those little "review alert" e-mails in my inbox!

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Chapter 10: Encounter in Ithilien

Normally I'd say we left at first light the next morning, but there wasn't much in the way of actual sunlight to differentiate between the pre- and post-dawn hours. The same heavy brownish-gray clouds obscured the sky, turning the livid greenish hues of Minas Morgul a duller shade, like rotting sea kelp. My body still ached from the previous day's ride, and I had a nice stiff neck after sleeping on that bench all night, but at least I had managed to get some rest. When I awoke Gorendil was gone, having somehow managed to extricate himself from beneath me without waking me up, but he reappeared just as I finished pulling on my second boot. Before we'd left Barad Dûr I'd packed my finer gowns against our arrival in Minas Tirith, but I knew there was no point in putting on anything else besides the already rumpled Haradrim attire the Lord of the Nazgûl had given me the day before.

"You'll have to eat in the saddle," he said, handing me a bundle that proved to be food wrapped in some coarse linen cloth. "Orc food was out of the question, but among the Haradrim something edible was found."

I pulled aside one corner of the wrapping to see something that looked remarkably like pita bread, rolled around dried meat and some kind of paste I couldn't identify. Along with that was a hard-pressed bar of dried fruit -- dates, or the Middle Earth analogue of them, anyway. It didn't look too bad; luckily, I wasn't a hugely picky eater.

"Thank you," I said, and he made a dismissive gesture.

"We must leave now."

So I followed him down the stairs, hoping the stiffness would begin to work its way out of my legs with some exercise. I wasn't exactly out of shape -- 24-Hour Fitness and I were old friends -- but no matter how toned your muscles are, if you work them in a way they're not used to, they're going to hurt. But it did seem as if the ache lessened as I hurried after Gorendil through the basalt-walled corridors of the fortress and on out into the courtyard where the rest of the company awaited us. Frodo and Sam were already there, safely astride their ponies, and I gave them a quick smile before moving on to my own horse and mounting with a little more grace than I had the day before. At least I didn't need the Lord of the Nazgûl to keep me from pitching over on my ass, although I noticed that he hovered behind me until he was certain I wouldn't fall off this time.

The stink of the Morgul Vale enveloped me once more as we rode out, so I shoved my makeshift breakfast into a saddlebag until we could be safely away. No point in trying to eat it then -- the smell alone was enough to make me gag without attempting to eat unknown food made with alien ingredients at the same time. Luckily my appetite was at an all-time low, so I just concentrated on keeping my seat on the horse and looking around me.

We now were moving almost due west; if the sun had been visible, it would have been right at our backs. The land sloped downward almost imperceptibly, at first covered in the twisted shapes of dead trees and some sort of scrubby dried-looking weeds. But as we rode I began to notice life coming back to the landscape -- at first just patches of half-hearted grass, then shrubs and actual trees with their leaves beginning to bud. Even in my own world I wasn't much good at identifying local flora, so I had no idea what I was looking at, but I began to see low bushes, trailing plants that looked like ivy, even some pale, slender wildflowers at the edge of a stream.

The air smelled much better, so I reached into my saddlebag and pulled out the pita-bread roll first and bit into it. Sharp spices filled my mouth, and my eyes watered a bit at the heat -- who expects cayenne-laced food in Middle Earth? -- but after I got used to it I decided it was good. The paste turned out to be made from olives or something similar, and helped to cool down the spices that had been used to cure the dried meat. Nevertheless, I had to take quite a few swigs from my water bag to keep the flames to an acceptable level, and the bar of compressed dates tasted heavenly after the spiciness of the other food. The Haradrim went up several points in my estimation.

Without a watch I have a dismal idea of the passage of time, but at least three or four hours must have gone by. The land around us grew greener, but that was the only indication we were making any progress. I yawned, thinking how it was so much easier in books, where the author could leave out all this tedious traveling to and from stuff and just cut to the interesting parts. Now I wasn't having as much trouble trying to keep from falling out of the saddle as just trying to keep from falling asleep.

But you know, nothing wakes you up faster than having an arrow whiz right past your ear.

Out of nowhere, a green-feathered bolt flashed past my cheek and buried itself in Gorendil's shoulder. I let out a little scream, lost my balance, and promptly went ass over teakettle across my mare's rump and onto the muddy ground. My clumsiness probably saved my life -- an entire flock of arrows seemed to fly overhead, and I remained prone on the roadbed, hardly daring to look up.

All around me were whirling hooves and hoarse shouts in the common tongue, the harsh language of Mordor, the alien accents of the Haradrim and the Easterlings. Obviously my horse had had some battle training; once she'd noticed that her rider was underneath her instead of on top of her, she stood squarely over me, protecting me with her bulk. From my vantage point on the ground, I couldn't see a hell of a lot of what was happening, but it looked as if the other four Ringwraiths had encircled the hobbits, providing a barrier of sorts. The arrow sticking out of Gorendil would have worried me more had I not known that it was going to take a lot more than a puny bolt like that to actually hurt him -- unless it had been fired by a woman, which I somehow doubted. Probably we had run into an outpost of Faramir's Rangers. Why they would take on a force that had to grossly outnumber them I had no idea, unless they'd decided it was worth it to kill as many of Mordor's soldiers as they could before fading back into the woods. That seemed to be the sort of tactics they had employed in the books, at least from what I could recall.

But what might have worked for them in the past didn't seem to be working too well now. Off in the distance I could hear the horrible sound of men's screams and knew they probably weren't coming from the ranks of the Haradrim or the Easterlings. The tumult around me seemed to quiet, and then I felt a strong hand grasp me by the elbow and haul me up out of the mud.

"Are you hurt?" asked the Lord of the Nazgûl. He must have taken the time to pluck the arrow out of his shoulder; otherwise, he appeared untouched.

"I -- I'm fine," I answered shakily, after pausing to make sure that really was the truth. But aside from a few bumps and bruises and more new and exciting strained muscles, I thought I was all right. Probably the worst damage had been to my riding clothes, which were now muddy and torn across one knee. "Are you? I saw the arrow -- "

The flint-gray eyes narrowed under the shadow of his hood. "It would take much more than that to harm me, I assure you."

Well, that was what I had thought, but still it reassured me to hear it from his own lips. "If anything happened to you -- " I began, but he shook his head as if to keep me from saying anything else.

Then his gaze moved from me to a tall Easterling captain who approached us. "Report," he commanded.

"My lord, most of the forces of Gondor have been slain, but we have taken a score or so of prisoners." The kohl that had lined the man's dark eyes was now smudged; a dark wrapping hid the rest of his face, so I had no idea what he might really look like. His mail of overlapping plates of boiled black leather was streaked with mud and blood.

"Bring them forth," said Gorendil, and the man bowed, then moved swiftly away from us, shouting orders in his own language.

I stood there hesitantly, not sure of what was going to happen next. Wrapping the trailing reins of my horse around my fingers, I waited as the Lord of the Nazgûl remained motionless a few paces away from me, a figure who might have been carved from ebony for all the movement he made.

A group of Easterlings and enormous orcs pushed and shoved a small band of men forward. They numbered twenty or so and all wore tunics and cloaks in various shades of green and brown -- the Gondorian equivalent of camouflage, I supposed. Not a one of them appeared to have escaped the skirmish unscathed; several limped, while others cradled injured arms, and all of them bled from at least one sword cut or arrow wound. To a man they looked on Gorendil and blanched. I had to keep reminding myself that to everyone else he -- and the other Ringwraiths -- was a looming, shadowy figure of terror.

"You think to assault the might of Mordor?" he asked, his voice seeming to boom out over the watching men. "Fools. Lord Sauron now commands all of Middle Earth, and to attack his emissaries is to forfeit your lives." He lifted a gloved hand, pointing at the captured men. "Slay them all."

I gasped, and started forward, but he reached out and grasped my wrist with a grip of iron. All I could do was stand there, powerless to prevent the slaughter.

And a slaughter it was, of course. The prisoners had been stripped of their weapons, and they went down immediately beneath the onslaught of the Easterlings and orcs, who stabbed and bludgeoned the Rangers to a man. Finally they all lay dead, a battered heap of bodies in the mud, while I forced myself to look away before I lost the meager breakfast I had eaten.

"So fall all the foes of Mordor!" the Lord of the Nazgûl cried, and from the ranks a harsh cheering arose. He turned to me. "Get back on your horse."

I stared at him with burning eyes. "How could you? They were prisoners -- they were defenseless -- "

"I told you to get back on your horse." His voice cut across me like a whip, and he pushed me against my mount, so that the stirrup banged painfully against my chest. "Now."

Arguing was useless, I knew. Looking away from him, I grasped the pommel and hauled myself gracelessly into the saddle, while he regained his own mount with practiced dexterity. Then he urged the stallion to a fast walk, while I was forced to follow after him. The entire huge train began its slow progress once more, almost as if nothing had happened.

If you could dismiss the pile of bodies left like trash at the side of the road.

Heart aching, I clenched my jaw and willed away the tears I could feel rising in my eyes. No doubt Gorendil would be displeased with my sorrow over his dead enemies, and I knew that no one who rode with me -- except of course Frodo and Sam -- shared my grief. I didn't know those men, of course. I had never seen them before. But they deserved more than to be slaughtered as they stood there helpless, and then left to rot like vermin. Even burning the bodies would have been more merciful than that.

I wished I had a hood like the Ringwraiths did; that way I could pull it up around my face to conceal the horror and sorrow I knew must be plain on my features. My mother had always said that I'd make a terrible poker player -- everything I thought or felt seemed to showed itself on my face. Thinking of her seemed to make my current situation that much more terrible -- the wave of homesickness that came over me then was almost as wrenching as the despair I felt over seeing Gorendil reveal this dark side of himself. With an almost physical ache I longed for my parents, my friends -- I even missed the noise and congestion of downtown Los Angeles. At least it was familiar...and safe. Everything this place was not.

I couldn't believe I'd been foolish enough to tell Gorendil I loved him. What the hell had I been thinking? He'd been Sauron's chief henchman for longer than I dared to contemplate, and who knows what other horrors he'd perpetrated during that time? Enough that I was certain a score or so of dead Gondorian Rangers counted as almost nothing.

The tears came then, streaming down my face and dripping wetly onto the high collar of my tunic. I had nothing to wipe them away with except the back of my hand, but I didn't bother. There would only be more to follow.

In misery I rode, staring at Gorendil's sword-straight black-clad figure. If only he would turn once to give me a reassuring look, or fall back so that he could explain to me why such slaughter had been necessary. But he didn't. Instead, the miles dropped away behind us, until finally at dusk we reached the ruined city of Osgiliath.

Immediately some of the troops broke off to set up a series of large black pavilions just outside the city walls. More fanned out to scour the area, no doubt looking for any signs of occupation by Gondor's troops, but the city seemed dead to me, half in ruins and not fit for habitation. That was probably why the captains were having their quarters set up outside the city; maybe some of the buildings were still sound enough to house us, but obviously the forces of Mordor weren't taking any chances.

I stood off to one side, watching the activity. Gorendil had left me here with a curt command not to stray far and then had ridden off after seeing that the hobbits had been safely installed in one of the first pavilions to be raised. Two Ringwraiths stood guard at the entrance to that tent, or I would have gone in to talk to them, heedless of the Lord of the Nazgûl's directives. But I knew the other Ringwraiths would stop me, so I waited at the periphery of the hustle and bustle, wanting to get down off my horse but knowing that at least I was safely out of the way where I was.

Finally the largest of the pavilions had been erected, and one of the Easterlings approached me. ""The Lord of the Nazgûl instructs that you are to await him inside."

Wearily I nodded and slid down off my horse, then followed him into the huge tent. Some allowances for comfort had been made -- I spotted a rope-suspended camp bed, as well as several X-shaped folding chairs and a large table. A brazier smelling of sweet oil hung from the roof, giving off some much-needed warmth. The day had been cool, but with nightfall it had become downright cold, and I didn't have a cloak.

The Easterling bowed and then backed his way out of the tent. Not knowing what else to do, I sat down on one of the chairs at the table, noticing as I did so that a large map of Middle Earth had been stretched out across its surface. Despite my current misery, I couldn't help but be fascinated by tracing the roads I had already taken -- across the plains of Gorgoroth, down through the Morgul Vale, and across the upper reaches of South Ithilien. And if we were in Osgiliath this evening, then it looked as if we should make it to Minas Tirith some time tomorrow.

I wondered what the city would look like in real life, and whether I'd get to actually meet the people who previously had only been characters on the printed page of a book or on-screen. The thought of actually seeing Aragorn and Gandalf in person thrilled me for a few seconds, until I realized that once they found out that I was the one responsible for Sauron reclaiming the Ring I was probably going to rank even lower than the Lord of the Nazgûl on their list of favorite people.

That thought sank me further, and I leaned forward over the table, burying my face in my arms. After the ride here I hadn't thought I could cry any more, but the tears began to burn at the back of my eyes once again.

"Sarah."

At the sound of his voice I raised my head quickly, wiping my eyes before I turned to look at him. He stood just inside the entrance of the pavilion, the hood finally thrown back from his face. Not that that helped any -- I still couldn't read anything from his stony features.

But his voice sounded much gentler than it had when he'd ordered me back in the saddle that morning. "I've brought you something to eat."

I looked down and noticed that he held a wooden tray with some bread and cheese, and another one of those spicy Haradrim meat rolls. On the tray also sat a stoneware pitcher and a goblet.

My stomach told me how just much I wanted the food, but I wasn't about to give in that easily. "I'm not hungry."

"I find that difficult to believe." He approached the table and set the tray down in front of me, and then settled himself in another one of the camp chairs, drawing it a little closer to where I sat.

"Believe whatever you want."

Another man might have sighed. Instead, he reached out and poured some of the contents of the pitcher into the goblet and handed it to me. I could smell the dark, fruity scent of the wine even before I raised it to my lips. Wine on an empty stomach probably wasn't such a great idea, but at that moment getting drunk enough so that I could just pass out and forget everything that had happened today sounded very appealing.

Gorendil watched me drink, then said, "You do not understand. This is war."

"Slaughtering unarmed men isn't war," I retorted. "It's murder."

His jaw hardened. "And do you think there are no unjust deaths in war? Is your own world so advanced that men no longer make war on one another?"

"No," I replied, knowing that I certainly couldn't make that assertion. "But we have rules. There _is_ something called the Geneva Convention, you know."

"No, I do not," he said. "What is this convention of which you speak?"

"Well, it's -- it's -- " I floundered for a moment, trying to remember what the hell the Geneva Convention actually _had_ covered. So much for paying attention in my AP European History class. Something about poison gas, and not using torture, but I was certain killing unarmed prisoners of war had to be included in there somewhere. "Just rules for warfare. For prisoners. A bunch of countries agreed to it to avoid atrocities."

"How noble," he remarked, and the skepticism in his tone was obvious. "And do all lands in your world follow these rules?"

I wanted to snap back that yes, of course they did, but even I wasn't that naïve. Who knew what went on in the desolate places of Afghanistan and Iraq, in the African nations where hundreds of thousands died with only a small note in the back pages of a newspaper to mark their passing? "I don't know," I said after a pause. "Probably not all of them. But mine does," I went on, then mentally added, _Usually_. Now probably wasn't the best time to go into human-rights violations in Guantanamo or Abu Ghraib. My father, bless him, was an unusual mixture of ex-activist and corporate attorney, and his anti-war rants at the dinner table could be epic. My mother shared his views, if more quietly, but the upshot was that I'd probably heard far more on the subject than most of my friends.

If he had noticed my hesitation, Gorendil did not call attention to it. He said, "War is ugly. Death is ugly. I am not an orc, to take joy from slaughter. But I will not hesitate to do what is necessary."

"And why were the deaths of those men 'necessary'?" I challenged. "They didn't exactly look like a big threat to me."

"They attacked us," he said calmly. "We march in strength, to show Lord Sauron's might, but this is not a war party. We do not intend to attack Minas Tirith, but to offer terms of surrender."

"I'm sure that's going to go over real well," I remarked.

"They have no choice. They know they cannot possibly confront the Dark Lord now that he has the power of the One Ring behind him once more." His mouth tightened. "At any rate, I am not here to bargain over prisoners of war. Those men bought their deaths with their unprovoked attack, and I will hear no more of it."

_Oh, really?_ I thought, but another look at his face told me that any more arguments would not be received favorably. In angry silence I took another sip from the wine goblet, feeling the welcome if false warmth it gave me in the pit of my stomach.

The Lord of the Nazgûl was no fool, and I think he could tell I certainly hadn't forgotten the incident, but since I remained silent he apparently chose to drop the matter.

"You will come with me to Minas Tirith," he continued, as if our disagreement had never occurred. "I think it will please you."

Did he think I was a child, to be distracted by a bright shiny object? "Whatever pleases _you_, my lord," I said bitterly.

"It would please me for you to be happy," he replied, and finally reached out to touch the hand that didn't hold the wine goblet. His fingers were cold but strong. "Do you think I enjoy seeing you in pain? You, the only person who could make me remember what it was to be a man?"

The volume of his tone never altered, but still the intensity in those words shook me. I looked at him then, forced myself to meet his eyes. The lines around them seemed to deepen as he stared back at me, as if by the strength of his gaze he could somehow make me understand. "What do you mean?" I asked.

He took the wine goblet from me and set it down on the table, then clasped both my hands in his. "For uncounted years I served Sauron. His will was my own, and I had no thought of myself, save to continue that service. All that moved and breathed in this world was no more than dust to me. But you came here, and you saw me -- how, I do not know. You saw me, and looked on me as a living man. And when I first lifted you, and held you in the saddle before me, I felt you, as I'd felt no one for uncounted lives of men. I felt your warmth, when I thought I would never be warm again. And I wanted you, as I thought I would never want a woman again."

He raised my hands to his lips, and they were cold as well. But I found I didn't care.

"So of course I tried to shelter you from Sauron. How could I let something so precious be hurt? He cares for nothing, save himself, and for too long I had suffered the same fate." Very gently he released my hands. "Even now you will learn that I must do things in his name that you may find -- questionable. But know that this does not change how I feel about you."

What on earth could I say to that? His revelation explained so much, although I still could not rid my mind of the horrible image of those dead men by the roadside. But in his own way he was as much a slave to Sauron as the rest of us. I couldn't excuse what he had done, but I also knew that despite everything, I still loved him. As he'd said, war was ugly. War was cruel. War made men do things they normally never would.

I had to believe that. And I needed to believe that the men of Minas Tirith would see the wisdom in surrender, because otherwise we'd all be caught up in a war they couldn't possibly win, and I didn't even want to think of the death and suffering that would result.

He continued to watch me intently. I took a breath, then said, "And it doesn't change how I feel about you."

For a few seconds he just stared back at me, as if he had to reassure himself of the truth of my words. Then he reached out to me, drawing me against him, his mouth finding mine with renewed hunger. I didn't protest -- it was so easy to fall into my need for him, to let my body take over, and allow pleasure to pull me away to a place where I could forget...

...if only for a while.


	11. The Walls of Minas Tirith

Thanks for the reviews, everyone! (Well, most of them, anyway.) Quick author's note: If the "terms" that Gorendil gives to Aragorn sound familiar, it's because I basically lifted them from the scene with the Mouth of Sauron in ROTK. Copyright to Mr. Tolkien and all that legal stuff!

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Chapter 11: The Walls of Minas Tirith

By this time I was used to waking up and finding Gorendil gone, and when I rolled over in the camp bed -- which was surprisingly comfortable -- I saw that I was alone in the large tent. Thin strips of pale daylight showed under the bottom edges of the pavilion, and from outside I could hear the various shouts of men and orcs, wheels creaking, and the neighing of horses.

I pushed myself over the side of the bed, my hand hovering over the pile of discarded riding clothes that lay on the ground. Maybe now I could finally put on something besides the travel-stained and sweaty garments, since we had finally reached Minas Tirith. But I hesitated, unsure as to what would be appropriate, and Gorendil strode in.

Instantly I clasped the clothing against my breasts -- I'd only been wearing my panties. I wanted to snap something about knocking, then realized with a tent it was sort of difficult to knock before entering.

He thrust a hooded cloak toward me, sort of a smaller version of the same outer garment he wore. "Put this on when you are done dressing."

So much for the fancy gowns. I pulled the decidedly worse for wear tunic over my head and stepped into the matching pants, pulling the drawstring tight around my waist. Then I lifted up the cloak and gave Gorendil a quizzical glance. "Is it cold out or something?"

"No more so than usual," he replied. "But it will not do to have you distracting the lords of Minas Tirith with your presence among the forces of Mordor. I also know, however -- " and he paused, giving me a look that was probably meant to be stern, although I thought I detected a slight amused lift to his mouth -- "that you will not be satisfied if you cannot be there to see these lords of Gondor for yourself. So put on the cloak and hide your face -- and keep silent, no matter what happens."

"Yes, sir!" I said, and thought about giving him a mock salute. Then I decided maybe that wasn't such a good idea. Besides, he was right -- I would have been upset if I couldn't see what happened next, and hiding my face behind a hood and promising to keep my mouth shut didn't seem too high a price to pay.

The unreality of it hit me, though, as I mounted my dapple-gray mare and rode out behind Gorendil once more, with the rest of his huge force fanning out behind us. Soon I would see Minas Tirith -- not to mention Aragorn, Gandalf, and the rest of the crew. Somehow they seemed less real to me than Gorendil or even Sauron, even though I was far more familiar with them as characters from the books and the films. Again I found myself wondering whether this was really happening to me, or whether I was sunk in some drugged or comatose state where my mind had taken refuge in wild fancies. This all felt real enough -- my senses were sharp and took note of everything from the faint smell of smoke and muddy earth in the air to the regular rhythm of the horse's muscles beneath me. I had that pleasantly used-up feeling I seemed to get after a night spent with Gorendil. And my stomach growled, signaling that it had decided this was the proper time for breakfast, even though the Lord of the Nazgûl hadn't deigned to give me any food this morning.

A quick search of my saddlebags turned up another one of those spicy Haradrim meat pasties, as well as an apple. I ate them both, as I swayed in the saddle and watched the open countryside pass by on either side of me. We crossed a huge wall of gray stone; I assumed it was meant for the outer defenses of the land, but it appeared abandoned, and recently -- torches still smoked in a guardhouse on the other side of the massive gate, but we saw no one. Probably they had all fled before the rumor of Sauron's power and the coming of his army. Beyond the wall lay more open country, dotted here and there with small villages.

After a moment I realized these must be the famous Pelennor Fields, but of course they looked quite different from the way they had in the films, where they had been covered by Sauron's siege engines, rampaging oliphants, and the rest of Mordor's army. True, an army of sorts had come here once again, but they marched in orderly fashion, the columns stretching out for what looked like miles behind us. And then, through the hazy air, still heavy with mists that hadn't completely burned away, I saw Minas Tirith.

Oh, how close they had come. I blinked, staring at the gleaming white city, which looked as if it had been carved directly out of the mountainside. Truthfully, there was very little of it that didn't look exactly the way it had in the films, right down to the huge buttress of stone that jutted out through the center of the city like the prow of a ship. When we got close enough to see the actual gates, the design on them was somewhat different from the one used in the movie, but otherwise you could have set me down right here, and I would have instantly known where I was. So did that mean I was imagining all this? Wouldn't the "real" Minas Tirith have looked different somehow?

We came to a halt about the length of a football field away from the walls of the city. Gorendil held up his hand, obviously indicating that we were to remain in our current positions, and rode forward a few paces. "The emissary of Sauron calls forth the lords of Gondor!"

A few agonizing seconds crawled by. From somewhere behind me I could hear the crack of the banners bearing the Red Eye as the wind lifted. Although the shadowy clouds of Mordor had followed us this far, directly above Minas Tirith a pale gleam of sun broke through, catching in the spire on the citadel at the very top of the city and glittering like broken diamonds.

Then the gates opened, and a company of men rode out.

In number they were far fewer than the army they faced -- probably no more than a few hundred. Their banners were black as well, but as they drew closer I saw the White Tree of Gondor proud against the somber fabric. At their head rode a figure in white on a white horse -- Gandalf, naturally. And beside him was a tall dark-haired man on a blood bay stallion, a man who could only be Aragorn. Behind them were ranged a group of other men who had to be high-ranking nobles of some sort. One fierce-eyed older man glared past Aragorn's shoulder, and with a shock I realized he must be Denethor. Of course here, in this sequence of events I had set into motion, there hadn't been a Battle of the Pelennor fields, a wounded Faramir, or the poisonous despair that led the Steward of Gondor to kill himself.

They stopped about twenty feet or so from Gorendil. I could tell the horses didn't like him -- they seemed restive, dancing and pulling at the reins, except for Gandalf's beautiful white stallion, which stood quietly, seeming to glare at the Lord of the Nazgûl's black mount as if to say, "how could you?"

This Aragorn seemed slightly older than the way he had been pictured in the films, but otherwise much the same: tall and well-built, with dark hair that fell to his shoulders and keen gray eyes under straight brows. He wasn't exactly what I would have called handsome, but there was something about him that drew the eye and made everyone around him seem somehow insignificant.

Except Gorendil, of course, who loomed up taller than Aragorn, taller than Gandalf, even mounted on his horse. After a few seconds of silence, during which the adversaries seemed to be sizing one another up, the Lord of the Nazgûl spoke. "Sauron, lord of Middle Earth, sends his greetings to the King of Gondor."

Those words seemed to elicit a sudden wave of unease among the forces of Gondor, and Gandalf frowned. But Aragorn said nothing, staring back at the black form of the Witchking and waiting.

"The Eye of Sauron sees all," said Gorendil. "It has long been known in Barad Dûr that a king has returned to Gondor. Sauron the Great has no wish to deprive the king of his throne -- provided that certain terms are met."

"And what are these terms?" asked Aragorn, speaking for the first time. His voice was deep, but not as deep as Gorendil's, baritone instead of bass.

"Less onerous than you might think," the Lord of the Nazgûl replied, "especially when one considers that he possesses the power of the One Ring once more."

I thought I saw a small shudder pass through Gandalf at that comment, but the wizard said nothing.

Gorendil continued, "Gondor and its allies must withdraw beyond the Anduin and take oaths never to assail Lord Sauron in arms. All lands east of the Anduin shall be Sauron's forever, solely. West of the Anduin as far as the Misty Mountains and the Gap of Rohan shall be tributary to Mordor, and men there shall bear no weapons but shall have leave to govern their own affairs. But they shall also help to rebuild Isengard, which they have destroyed, and that shall be Sauron's, and there his lieutenant shall dwell: not Saruman, but one more worthy of trust."

I had a sneaking suspicion who that might be -- who better to place at Isengard than Gorendil, Sauron's right-hand man? Still, Isengard sounded like a garden spot compared to Minas Morgul, so I wasn't about to argue.

"Further," Gorendil went on, "those of the Eldar who wish to depart Middle Earth and sail West will be allowed to do so, unmolested. These are the terms of Sauron the Just."

At that epithet I saw Aragorn's eyes narrow, but he did not bother to contest Sauron's new title. "And what surety do I have that if we swear these oaths, all will come to pass as you have claimed? For ever was Sauron the father of lies."

"You have a harsh and suspicious nature, King of Gondor," the Lord of the Nazgûl said. "But if it is proof of Lord Sauron's mercy that you require, I can provide that surety." He turned in the saddle, and gestured toward the group of Ringwraiths behind me, who up until that moment had surrounded Frodo and Sam, shielding them from the eyes of their friends. "As a token of Sauron's goodwill, those whom you sent into Mordor to betray him will be returned to you."

The Black Riders parted, and the two hobbits rode out from between them, looking very small and incongruous on their two ponies. The eyes of both hosts seemed to be on them as they closed the gap between the forces of Mordor and those of Gondor. I watched Gandalf closely, and I could see the sudden light in his eyes as he realized that at least these two had not been lost to him.

But Aragorn's face was expressionless, although I noticed that he waited until the hobbits had been safely folded into the watching ranks of men before he spoke. "And what of these armies I see ranged behind you? Are they merely a peacekeeping force?"

"Only a force sufficient to encourage the lords of Gondor to choose the right course of action," Gorendil replied smoothly. "We will remain here, to see that the armies Gondor has gathered to itself are dispersed and return to their own lands. Not one hand will be lifted against Minas Tirith -- unless you force it, Aragorn son of Arathorn." His voice hardened. "But know that if you swear these oaths you will be held to them forever, and Sauron's mercy will be withdrawn as easily as it was given should they ever be broken." With that he lifted a hand in the air, saying, "A small demonstration."

The ground beneath us shook. Not a lot -- I'd felt worse in my time, and did the quick mental math just about every native Californian performs after a temblor. This couldn't have been much more than a 5.1 or 5.2.

But it was enough. Several of the horses reared -- not Aragorn's or Gandalf's, naturally -- and even from the walls of the city, which had to be a good quarter-mile away, I thought I heard sudden dismayed cries.

"Sauron wields the One Ring," the Lord of the Nazgûl said. "Never forget what that means, for Minas Tirith and all the lands of the west. His forbearance will last only as long as your submission."

At that Aragorn suddenly bowed his head, looking ten years older. Gandalf's features seemed to sag, although he still held his head up proudly. They had the appearance of men who found themselves backed into a corner with no way out -- which of course was exactly what they were.

"I will swear these oaths," he said finally. "For the people of Gondor, and the west."

"Your nobility will be long remembered," Gorendil said, and there was no ignoring the sarcasm in that statement. It made me want to smack him across the face, although I of course would never have the nerve to do such a thing. Besides, I'm sure he felt he deserved a bit of gloating -- who knows how many years he'd been waiting to get the upper hand in the ongoing conflict between the two countries?

Then the Lord of the Nazgûl drew his sword, holding it flat in front of Aragorn. The blade was black, and it seemed as if odd little flames danced along the edges. It reminded me of fresh charcoal when the lighter fluid has just begun to catch. "Swear then," he said.

And, so help me, he did. The rich baritone a bit ragged around the edges, Aragorn swore never to take up arms against Sauron, to swear fealty to Mordor, to give over the disputed lands east of the Anduin to the Dark Lord. By the time he was through he looked vaguely sickened, although I really didn't know what else he could have done. Just in sheer numbers alone Sauron's army far outnumbered the forces that had been gathered together in Minas Tirith, and that was without taking into account the Dark Lord's handy little trick with the earthquake. No doubt the demonstration had been intended to show that he could shatter the city to its foundations if he so chose.

It hurt. It hurt a lot, though I was sure Aragorn and Gandalf and the rest of them were experiencing pain I couldn't begin to imagine. The wrongness of the situation seemed to ache in my gut -- it shouldn't be happening like this. Aragorn wasn't supposed to capitulate -- he was supposed to go with Gandalf and the rest of his army and assail the Black Gate while Frodo and Sam made their final push to the fires of Mount Doom. But the two hobbits were here instead, thwarted in their quest because of me. Sauron held the Ring, because of me. And Gondor was now a slave state, because of me.

I had to gulp back the sour taste of vomit that rose in my throat. Despite my feelings for Gorendil, I would have done anything to take back what I had said to Sauron. Better that I should have died, and the Lord of the Nazgûl never rediscovered life, than all these countless people should become enslaved to the Dark Lord.

But agonizing over "could" and "should" wasn't going to change the current situation. Even if I went to Aragorn or Gandalf and said, "It's all my fault -- you should execute me for what I've done," it wouldn't make the Ring spontaneously leap off Sauron's finger. If Gorendil even allowed me to do such a thing, which of course I knew he wouldn't.

Instead I stood by, still muffled in my concealing cloak, and watched as the Lord of the Nazgûl returned his sword to its sheath and began issuing orders. Apparently the main force would remain encamped in front of Minas Tirith's gates, monitoring the exit of Gondor's troops as they returned to their own provinces, farms, and towns. But an honor guard of some five hundred were to come with Gorendil into the city itself, where he could establish a post to oversee the operation.

Of course neither Aragorn nor Gandalf bothered to protest. They simply stood and waited until that honor guard (which luckily was made up entirely of Easterlings and Haradrim, and not orcs -- I can only imagine that wouldn't have gone over terribly well) surrounded us as we made our way into the city. We followed the forces of Gondor, who rode in the sort of shocked silence you sometimes saw in people who had just lived through a cataclysmic event like an earthquake or a tornado. They had probably never thought it would end like this. And they couldn't even claim a noble defeat in battle, although I doubted anyone would dare criticize Aragorn's choice. A leader has to do what is right for all his people, and fighting a war he couldn't possibly win would only have led to countless deaths and much harsher treatment from Sauron.

If the Dark Lord kept his word, of course. I certainly didn't trust him any farther than I could throw him (i.e., not at all), but it also seemed that Sauron would get much more enjoyment from keeping the King of Gondor under this thumb and blackmailing him with the safety of his people than just slaughtering them all outright. Prolonged subtle psychological torture seemed much more his style.

The walls of the city loomed up before us, and I could feel the watching eyes of the populace upon me and the forces of Mordor as we entered the tall iron-barred gates and finally moved into the streets of Minas Tirith. The resentful silence seemed to push against my ears like an actual weight, and I was suddenly glad of the hood that concealed my face. How could I look at any of them, when I was the one responsible for the conquering army that marched proudly through the stony ways that led up to the higher levels of the city?

Since I rode somewhat back from Gorendil, I couldn't tell how he made arrangements with Aragorn. I just knew that by some tacit agreement we stopped in front of a row of tall houses on the sevenh level, almost directly below the citadel that topped Minas Tirith. The buildings seemed to have been abandoned, since I could see no visible signs of occupation. I remembered reading in the book that the city's population had dwindled, leaving houses and whole streets empty, and that seemed to be the case here. Convenient, I supposed, since that way no one had to be displaced to accommodate the Lord of the Nazgûl and his train.

A sort of orderly confusion ensued, wherein the great majority of the men who had accompanied Aragorn and Gandalf thus far seemed to evaporate back into the lower reaches of the city, although I noticed that Denethor and a handsome young man who probably was Faramir waiting off to one side, with the hobbits standing next to them. The Haradrim and Easterlings somehow appeared to work out who would go where; I saw men moving into the various empty homes, taking their supplies with them. Gorendil waited quietly in front of the tallest house, one that had a beautiful façade of carved stone in elegant arabesques, and high windows with hundreds of diamond panes. Not knowing what else to do, I lingered in the background as my mare fidgeted beneath me. The stone streets woke all kinds of noise and echoes, and possibly the sound disturbed her.

Finally Aragorn turned to the Lord of the Nazgûl and said formally, "This house is yours, my lord, for as long as you have need of it."

Gorendil inclined his head. "Your hospitality will be noted, King of Gondor." As if noticing me for the first time, he stepped toward my horse and then extended a hand to me. "Let us go in, my dear."

I took the gloved fingers in mine and allowed him to help me down. Although I hadn't been in the saddle nearly as long as the day before, I was still glad to be standing on solid ground once more. Somehow I doubted I would ever be truly graceful on horseback. As I found my balance, I twitched at my cloak, trying to straighten it. My cloak slipped back from my face, and I caught Aragorn staring at me with a strange mixture of curiosity and shock. Gandalf's eyebrows lifted, but I didn't have a chance to really register their reactions before Gorendil ushered me inside and shut the door.

The place smelled cold and damp, and the ashes of fires long since dead. But it was beautiful nonetheless, with smooth oak floors, painted frescoes on the walls, and intricately carved furniture. All it needed was a good airing. And oddly, it felt safe, as if by closing the door behind us Gorendil had somehow shut out the rest of Middle Earth and its troubles. I doubted that Aragorn had intended to give us a haven, but that's what it seemed like to me, as I stood there in the cold morning light and watched as the Lord of the Nazgûl pushed back his hood and smiled.

"Welcome to Minas Tirith, my love," he said.


	12. The White Wizard

Thanks again for all the reviews! I have to say I'm shocked by how many faves/author alerts this story is on!

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Chapter 12: The White Wizard

You know what an occupying army does? Well, mostly it occupies. In the case of Minas Tirith, this meant that checkpoints watched over by either Haradrim or Easterling troops were set up at each of the gates that led into the various levels, and that no one could leave the city without the express permission of the Lord of the Nazgûl or one of his lieutenants. For now the people seemed too cowed to do much complaining, but I could see the situation getting ugly in the very near future.

Gorendil I hardly saw at all -- he and his fellow Ringwraiths had taken over a wing of the citadel, where more and more orders were issued in the name of Sauron. Already I saw huge wagons of plunder and supplies setting out east along the road that had brought us here, and I wondered how dry the Dark Lord would bleed the city before he figured out that a population dead of starvation wasn't of much use to anyone. Supplies had already been low, seeing as we were at the tail end of winter. At least the fields seemed to be getting prepared for the spring planting -- men were already at work plowing the fields, their work carefully overseen by their conquerors. I'd made a caustic remark to Gorendil a few nights back that it was going to be tough to get anything to grow under Sauron's perpetual cloud cover, and it did seem that lately the days had lightened, with a few hours of sun in the afternoon at least. I had no way of knowing whether my words had made their way back to the Dark Lord, or whether even he had figured out that photosynthesis without the "photo" part just wasn't going to work.

Two days after we had settled in our borrowed house the Riders of Rohan had arrived on the scene, and there was some brief skirmishing between their forces and the army of Mordor encamped outside the city walls before Gorendil and Aragorn rode forth to let them know the lay of the land. I really didn't see any of this happening, since of course I was far away from the fields in my house in the Seventh Circle, but word quickly passed through the streets and made its way to me through the medium of Araneth, one of the servants who had been assigned to us.

I'd certainly never had servants before. My mother had a service in to clean the house every other week, but I don't think that really counts. But we had three: Araneth, who was probably about my age or a year or so younger and who handled all the basic housekeeping duties; Talrían, her mother, who had made the kitchen her own little kingdom; and Halegond, a silent fellow who was somehow related to both of them in a manner I still hadn't quite figured out but who took on the heavier duties, as well as tending to our horses. The house actually had its own stables out back past a stone-paved courtyard, which I gathered was unusual for Minas Tirith.

Gorendil frightened the living daylights out of all of them, but he'd made himself scarce lately, and I certainly wasn't the sort to inspire fear in anyone. Once the Lord of the Nazgûl left the house Araneth would slowly come to life, like a flower reviving after a healthy dose of water. In a way she reminded me of my friend Lisa, since both of them were motormouths. And after Araneth discovered I wasn't about to scold her or instruct her to hold her tongue the way an older mistress might have, she definitely gave that tongue free rein.

"They came from the north," she told me, as I sat by one of the tall windows in the great hall and struggled with my embroidery. I didn't have much else to occupy my time, so I'd told Araneth to see if she could scare up some canvas, a hoop, and some silk and needles for me. From somewhere in the house a large carved embroidery frame was produced, along with all of the other supplies I had requested. But I'd never worked on such a large frame before, and I had to keep telling myself I couldn't just pick it up and put it in my lap, the way I'd been used to handling my embroidery hoops at home. The angles were awkward for me, but I struggled along. I didn't know what else to do.

"I hope too many people weren't hurt," I said, drawing the silk floss up through the stiff linen and wondering whether my last French knot looked a little ragged around the edges.

"I don't think so, my lady." Araneth had been standing by the window, but she turned and gave me a worried look. Her first day in the house I had told her that she didn't need to call me "my lady," but my request had been met with such a scandalized look I decided the matter probably wasn't worth arguing over. "The King and the Lord of -- I mean, your lord -- well, they went out and put a stop to it. But I heard that King Théoden had to swear oaths not to attack Mordor as well."

"Naturally," I said. Of course Gorendil would make sure that Rohan didn't pose any more of a threat than Gondor. It made sense, since of course our next stop after Minas Tirith apparently was to be Isengard.

When that would happen, I didn't know, and I didn't want to ask. Somehow it seemed almost as if Gorendil were trying to lengthen our stay here, as if he didn't want to move on, even though Sauron had commanded it. Just last night I had woken up, wanting a drink of water, and had crept out of the bedroom, only to hear Gorendil's voice in the next chamber. I had peered around the door frame and saw him facing one of those scary crystal balls, although I didn't know whether he had brought this one from Minas Morgul or whether he'd appropriated the one here in Minas Tirith.

He had to be speaking with Sauron; I'd seen a murky reddish glow coming from the orb, a hue that immediately made me think of the angry sky behind Mount Doom. "It moves, but slowly, my lord," he'd said. "I do not think it wise for me to depart this place before a fortnight has passed."

Then that beautiful, deadly voice, so clear that I could feel the shivers running down my back as I listened. "Do what you must, but tarry not overlong, my lord of Angmar. The west awaits, and Isengard is but the first step."

"All will be as you command, my lord," Gorendil had replied. Then the crystal ball turned dark, and I hurried away before the Lord of the Nazgûl could catch me at my eavesdropping. Instead of running down to the kitchen to fetch my water as I had originally intended, I went straight back to bed, heart pounding and mind racing.

What had Sauron meant, "the west awaits"? The terms Gorendil had given Aragorn made it sound as if the Dark Lord sought to control mainly the lands between the Misty Mountains and Mordor itself, but a vague reference to "the west" could mean almost anything. Actually, it probably meant that he intended to take over all of Middle Earth, with Gondor and Rohan as his stepping-stone to overcoming Lothlorien and Rivendell and the Shire, not to mention the open lands that held small villages like Bree.

Gnawed by growing anxiety, I sat there and worked at my embroidery and listened to Araneth's chatter. She told me that Théoden and the rest of his forces had been compelled to return to Rohan immediately, and I felt a sense of sadness, of things that should have been and now wouldn't occur. Of course the kindly old King of Rohan would now live, where before he would have died on the Pelennor Fields, but without a battle there would be no Houses of Healing, and therefore probably no marriage between Eowyn and Faramir.

My fingers faltered, and I absent-mindedly stabbed myself in the thumb as I attempted to push the needle up through the back of the stiff fabric. Suddenly the house seemed a prison.

"I need to go out," I announced, pushing my chair back from the embroidery frame and standing up.

"Out?" Araneth echoed. She looked a little apprehensive. "Are you sure? After all -- _can_ you?"

That was a good question. Although Gorendil had not strictly forbidden me from leaving the house, he had told me that it probably would not be wise for me to go about the streets unaccompanied. Already there had been several incidents involving the occupying forces and young women who had ventured out alone. Gorendil hadn't given me any real details, but it didn't take a genius to figure out what sort of "incidents" those probably had been.

But the men stationed on our street knew who I was, of course, and I thought I should be safe enough if I went up to the citadel that topped Minas Tirith. I knew better than to interrupt the Lord of the Nazgûl at his work, but I didn't see the harm in going to visit the courtyard I'd read about in the books and seen in the films. From there I'd be able to look out across the whole city and see more of what was going on -- and the idea of some fresh air suddenly seemed irresistible.

"Of course I can," I replied, after a small pause. "Besides, I'll just go up to the citadel. I don't see how anyone could bother me there."

Once she heard where I intended to go, Araneth relaxed visibly. "No, of course not," she said quickly. "Shall I fetch you your cloak?"

From what I could see of the day outside through the windows, it looked fine enough, with a pale sun breaking through the clouds. I shook my head. "Don't bother. I don't think I'll need it."

She nodded but still looked a little worried. Maybe she was just hoping that I would come back before Gorendil did. Although he had very little contact with the servants -- by design, it seemed, since he let me handle pretty much everything about the running of the household -- once or twice he'd surprised Araneth by coming around a corner suddenly, and I'd heard her give a frightened little yelp before fleeing in the direction of the kitchen.

I thought her worries were pretty baseless -- he usually never came back until after dinnertime. Maybe he was just uncomfortable with watching me eat when he had no need to, but whatever the reason, we never dined together. In fact, we spent so much time apart I was starting to wonder why he had brought me here in the first place, except of course to keep me as far away from Sauron as possible. And frankly, that was reason enough for me.

When I stepped outside, the two Easterling soldiers who guarded the door came to attention right away, but I just pointed upward and said, "I'm going to the citadel." I actually wasn't sure how much of the common tongue the Easterlings understood, but hand gestures are pretty universal. They nodded and let me pass, and I strode off, feeling vaguely excited about being out of the house and on my own for the first time since I had come here.

The street sloped up, following the contour of the mountain, and I was glad the air had remained fairly cool, even though the sun had come out. Since this section had been given over to the Nazgûl and their high-ranking commanders, I didn't see many natives of Gondor as I moved through the narrow streets, while the ground sloped steadily upward. As I approached the gate that opened into the citadel level, the soldiers there watched me carefully but did not try to stop me; probably word had gone out that the Elvish-looking young woman was with the Lord of the Nazgûl and it was better to leave her alone. And after that I came out into a white-paved courtyard, where a fountain played in the quiet, and a dead tree drooped over the clear water.

Again that forlorn wave of possibilities lost hit me -- I knew that Aragorn was supposed to find the successor to that tree somewhere on the slopes of the mountain beyond the citadel, but I doubted the White Tree would flourish under the shadow of Sauron. Still, it was very beautiful here, and even the dead tree had its own mournful grace as it bowed over the waters of the fountain. The air moved much more freely up here on the heights, and I felt the wind lift my hair back from my face. I took a deep breath and shut my eyes, letting the clean oxygen fill my lungs. It seemed as if I hadn't been able to really breathe for days.

When I opened my eyes, though, I suddenly found that I wasn't alone. A tall white-bearded old man all in white stood off to one side, watching me with speculative eyes.

"Gandalf," I said immediately, then wondered whether I should curtsey or something.

He inclined his head slightly. "Forgive my intrusion -- "

"It's all right," I said. I didn't want him asking my forgiveness for anything -- not when I was guilty of so much. "I just wanted to get some air."

"This is the place for it," he agreed, taking a few steps toward me. He gestured toward a white marble bench set off to one side of the fountain. "Would you indulge me?"

There wasn't any graceful way for me to decline. Besides, I wanted to know what he had to say to me. So I nodded and sat down, pushing the heavy dark-gray fabric of my skirts out of the way so he would have room to sit down.

Up close, he looked quite formidable. Of course he possessed an air of great age, but the piercing blue eyes obviously missed very little. His nose was beakier in real life than how the makeup artists had reproduced it in the films, but otherwise he did look remarkably like Ian McKellen -- or at least Ian McKellen playing Gandalf.

"Your presence here has been cause for some speculation," he said. "At first glance, one would think you were one of the Eldar, but that is not quite the case, is it?"

With a nervous hand I reached up to push a lock of hair back behind my unnaturally pointed ear. I still wasn't quite used to that particular alteration in my appearance; even now when I looked at myself in a mirror -- which the lovely house we had been given did have -- I startled a bit when those pointy little ear tips poked out through my hair. Otherwise, I looked much the same as I always had, if possibly a bit thinner.

"No," I replied slowly, then lifted my eyes to meet his. I didn't think I'd ever met anyone with eyes so blue and so clear. "I'm not from here at all. I don't know how it happened, but somehow I fell -- or tripped -- or -- " I floundered for a moment, wishing I didn't sound like such an idiot. "Anyway, however it happened, I came here. A friend of mine told me once about a theory that there are infinite worlds, each separated by just the thinnest layer. And if we could just figure out how to break through that barrier, then we'd be able to travel amongst them. Somehow I got from my world to this one -- where I come from, Middle Earth is just a made-up place in a story. It doesn't really exist."

"But now you see that it truly does." Gandalf's voice sounded kind, but with a deep sadness underlying the measured tones.

"Yes," I said miserably. Then desperately, the words coming out in a rush before I even realized I was going to say them, "I didn't mean for any of this to happen. He threatened to kill me, but I know that's not a good enough excuse. Maybe somehow I thought it was all a dream, or that I was unconscious after being knocked on the head or something. But I've destroyed Middle Earth, just to save my own miserable life."

A long silence followed my outburst. I knotted my hands in my lap and stared down, not wanting to see Gandalf's expression. My hands looked very pale against the charcoal-colored wool of my skirts, the garnet ring on my finger like a splash of dark blood. I could feel the familiar tightening in my chest as the tears threatened to break loose once more.

Then the wizard sighed, and I heard a rustle of fabric as he shifted his weight slightly. "I once told Frodo -- how long ago it seems, though it was only a few months past -- that not even the wise can see all ends. This is not the end that I had envisioned, or worked for. Perhaps it was all a mad dream, thinking we could thwart the will of Sauron."

"But you did," I protested. My voice sounded thick with unshed tears, and I had to clear my throat. "Frodo did it -- well, Gollum really."

"_Gollum_ destroyed the Ring?"

"By accident," I replied. "At the end, Frodo couldn't do it. He said the Ring was his, but Gollum had followed him, and they fought over it, and Gollum ended up biting it right off Frodo's finger but then falling into Mount Doom. And so the Ring was destroyed, and Sauron beaten." Even as I related the story to Gandalf I suddenly wondered what the hell _had_ happened to Gollum. I'd been so preoccupied with everything that was happening to me I hadn't even stopped to think that Gollum should have been with the hobbits when they were taken. Had he eluded capture? Or had he perished when Sauron reclaimed the Ring? I made a mental note to ask Gorendil that night when he returned home.

"I see," said Gandalf, and a bit of the light in his eyes faded, making him suddenly look much older. No doubt it hurt him to think that Frodo's will had failed there at the end, even if the outcome had been a happy one.

I added quickly, "It wasn't his fault. The Ring had just driven him crazy by the time they got to Mount Doom. But it all worked out, and Aragorn was made king, and Mordor and Sauron destroyed."

"It is a fine tale," the wizard commented. "Unfortunately, it is not the tale we are living now. Aragorn is king, but of a subject nation, and I fear the Dark Lord will not be long content with the terms of our surrender."

_You don't know the half of it_, I thought, but for some reason I held my tongue. Maybe I had just been jumping to conclusions after all. How much did Gandalf even believe of what I had told him? After all, to him and everyone else in Minas Tirith, I was consorting with the enemy. I might as well have told him my name was Eva Braun and be done with it.

"One thing puzzles me," Gandalf went on, and then gave a small mirthless chuckle. "One of many, to be sure, but I must ask -- the Lord of the Nazgûl shows favor to you that no mortal has seen for an age of men. I must confess to some curiosity."

"I know it seems odd," I said, then paused for a moment, wondering how the hell I could possibly explain my relationship with Gorendil to this kind old man who was so much more than he seemed. "Again, I'm not sure how -- maybe it's because I do come from another world -- but to me he is no wraith. When I look at him, I see him as he must have been before Sauron enslaved him with the Ring of Power. I know this must sound awful, and I don't expect you to understand, but I've come to love him. He's watched over me and protected me, and although I know he must have done terrible things in the name of Sauron, he's only shown me consideration and affection. I don't expect anyone to understand, but I'd be lost here without him."

Another long pause, and then Gandalf shook his head. "I have been counted one of the wise, but even I do not presume to offer counsel when it comes to matters of the heart. But I do know one thing." He fixed me with those sharp blue eyes of his, and said, "Love is never wasted. There are those who will question your choices, or call you traitor, but that does not change the fact that you faced evil with love, or that you have brought about a small softening in one who had been lost to darkness for many lifetimes of men. Whether this will change anything remains to be seen. You carry your burden of guilt for helping Sauron to regain the Ring, but you should not feel guilty for finding love in unexpected places."

Sympathy from such an unanticipated quarter finally undid me. I bowed my head and let the tears come, my shoulders shaking with sobs. Then I felt a gentle hand touch my hair.

"I -- I'm sorry," I gasped. "It's just that -- I mean, it's been so terr -- terrible." And another wave of sobbing took hold of me, as if some sort of dam had been broken.

"You are very young, aren't you?" came Gandalf's calm voice.

"Tw -- twenty-one," I managed, trying to force some air back into my lungs in a vain attempt to stave off another round of tears.

"Just a child," he said, and normally those words from anyone else would have been certain to raise my ire. But he was right -- compared to him, or Gorendil, or even Aragorn, I was practically a baby.

His quiet compassion somehow gave me the strength to gulp back the last of my tears. I raised my head and wiped at my eyes. From somewhere in the folds of his robes he produced an enormous white handkerchief, which he handed to me with a rueful smile. "Beings in a crisis always seem to lack handkerchiefs," he remarked. "From hobbits on up."

"Thank you," I said, blotting my eyes and dabbing at my nose. "I really didn't mean to have a meltdown."

"But you do feel better now."

"I do," I admitted, feeling slightly surprised. Oh, not all the way better -- how could I, with Sauron holding the Ring and Gondor occupied by Mordor's troops? -- but at least I felt as if I could think straight again.

"As do I," he said. "For now I see this was not brought about by malice, and that there is no evil in your soul. I worried as to what sort of being might have come among us in the company of the Lord of the Nazgûl, but now I know more of what is in your heart. Perhaps there may yet be a way to fix this."

"'Where there's life, there's hope,'" I ventured. That has always been one of my mother's favorite sayings.

A keen blue glance from beneath the tufted white brows, and he nodded. "As you say. Sauron's arrogance has always been his weakness, and -- " He paused, head cocked slightly as if at some far-off sound. Rising suddenly, he moved away from me to the edge of the courtyard, where a parapet edged the marble paving stones and kept the unwary from tumbling over the sheer cliff below. From there you could look out across the entire city, and the Pelennor Fields beyond.

"What is it?" I asked, and then stood and went to him. "Is something wrong?"

"No," he said, staring out into the distance. "Perhaps something has finally gone right."

Following his stare, I was finally able to see a small group of riders approaching at a fast clip down the road that led to the main gates of the city. Probably numbering no more than thirty, the majority of them seemed to be men cloaked in dark gray. I thought I saw a glint of silver at several of their throats, probably from some sort of cloak clasps. But at their center trotted a pale dappled horse, and on that horse rode a woman robed in soft gray, her hair a dark ribbon flowing out behind her. Above her the wind caught the only banner they carried, a banner of some amazing silver cloth that seemed to shimmer like molten metal under the half-hearted sun. White jewels sparkled there as well, but none shone as brightly as the woman who rode beneath that standard.

I turned to Gandalf. Was it possible?

"Hope is not lost," he said quietly. "The Evenstar has come to Gondor." He smiled then, until his eyes seemed almost buried in the laugh lines that surrounded them. "Arwen has come to take her place at Aragorn's side."


	13. The Wrath of the Witchking

Well, ff.n was being annoying, and the only way I could upload this was to turn it into a raw text file. I tried to reconstruct all the formatting, but I apologize in advance if I've missed something.

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Chapter 13: The Wrath of the Witchking

I felt my heart lift at Gandalf's words. Maybe there was one thing in Middle Earth I hadn't managed to completely ruin. After all, would Arwen have come to Gondor if the situation were as hopeless as I had thought?

The wizard turned from the parapet and began to move toward the high arched doors that led into the citadel from the courtyard. Not sure what else to do, I began to follow in his wake. What harm, really, if I just stayed in the background and out of the way but still could catch a glimpse of Aragorn meeting with Arwen?

But I had only taken a few steps when an angry voice boomed out through those doors, seeming to echo off the marble paving stones. "What does she do here, the whore of Mordor -- "

Gandalf came to a dead stop, while I faltered in his shadow. From out of the building stalked the man I believed was Denethor, although of course we had never been formally introduced. He gave me a single withering look, then transferred his black glare to Gandalf. "I had expected better of you, Mithrandir, than to dally with this baggage -- "

_Baggage_? I opened my mouth, ready to launch into a few of the insults I usually reserved for people who cut me off on the freeway, but Gandalf forestalled my angry protests by saying, "Peace, Lord Steward. Her business with me is no concern of yours -- "

"No concern?" Denethor demanded. He probably had been a fine-looking man in his day, but he seemed old before his time -- too old to be a father to Faramir, who appeared to be somewhere in his early thirties. "No concern of mine, when she accompanies this accursed Nazgûl lord to my city and is deep in his counsels? And what possible business could she have with you, this harlot who is a traitor to all her kind?"

All right, that was taking it a little too far. I mean, I've been called a few things in my life, but _harlot _was definitely not one of them. And "traitor to my kind"? Well, I suppose that to Denethor and the people of Gondor I probably did look like some type of Elf, even though those -- such as Sauron and Gandalf -- who actually had any real experience dealing with the Eldar could tell I really wasn't one of them. Now, I suppose one could simply extrapolate the "traitor" comment to mean anyone who had been born one of the free peoples of Middle Earth, but I wasn't from Middle Earth, so I'm not sure you could exactly call me a traitor. Foolish, maybe, impulsive, certainly, selfish -- OK, I'd admit to all of those if pressed, even though I wouldn't exactly enjoy it. But if Gandalf hadn't condemned me, then I certainly wasn't about to condemn myself.

But the wizard said only, in tones far milder than I would have been able to manage, "Her business is her own, Lord Denethor." For the first time he glanced back at me, and then murmured, "Perhaps it would be better if you returned to your dwelling, Sarah."

That sounded like a fabulous idea. The only problem was that Denethor stood right in my way, and somehow the thought of having to push past him to exit the courtyard wasn't particularly appealing. So I hesitated for a moment, unsure as to how I could best escape without looking as if I were escaping. My silence seemed to encourage the steward's further wrath, unfortunately, because he continued to glare at the two of us. Then he snapped, "Perhaps she thinks she deserves to make herself free of the citadel, this trollop the Lord of the Nazgžl has foisted upon us. But to have her befouling this hallowed place -- "

"This what I have foisted upon you, Steward?" came Gorendil's deep voice. From the corridor behind Denethor the Lord of the Nazgûl appeared suddenly, his black robes billowing like shadows given substance.

Denethor blanched, but to do him credit, he did not back down. "Trollop," he repeated, black eyes narrowing slightly.

"Ah," said Gorendil. "I thought that was what you said." Even from where I stood I could see the hardening of his features within the recesses of the cowled hood. I'm not sure which was more frightening -- the cold voice issuing from apparent nothingness that Gandalf and Denethor would perceive, or the mask of icy fury that I saw as the Nazgûl lord advanced on the steward. Denethor was not a short man, but Gorendil of course towered over him. "I would have a care, if I were you, Steward. Lately you have become...expendable."

"I will speak my mind in my own dwelling," returned Denethor. "Or does the Dark Lord think he can control our very thoughts?"

The guy had balls, that's for sure. I knew I wouldn't have had the guts to stand up to the Lord of the Nazgûl like that. On the other hand, there's nothing wrong with a healthy sense of self-preservation...which Denethor sadly seemed to be lacking. I saw Gandalf begin to take a step forward, then pause, as if not certain whether he should interfere in the confrontation.

"Your thoughts are your own," Gorendil replied, and his voice sounded suspiciously smooth. His hand rested casually on the hilt of the sword he wore at his waist. "But I think I should ensure that you will keep them to yourself in the future."

The movement, when it came, was so blindingly fast that at first I couldn't exactly comprehend what was happening. A gout of flame burst forth as Gorendil unsheathed his sword, and in one swift rush it lifted and caught Denethor squarely across the neck. The blade seemed to meet no resistance and continued on in the same flawless arc -- just as the steward's head separated itself from the rest of his body and hit the paved ground with an unholy thunk.

I think I screamed. Then I pushed my fist up against my mouth to stop the scream -- and to try and fight off the sickness I felt rising in my throat. At the same time Gandalf shook off his paralysis and strode swiftly to the fallen body of the former Steward of Gondor, then knelt beside him.

"Any complaints, wizard?" the Lord of the Nazgûl asked, still in that same silky, calm tone.

"What have you done?" Gandalf demanded.

"Merely rid Gondor of some excess baggage," Gorendil replied. "What need have you of a steward, now that Gondor has a king once more?"

The wizard made no reply to that, instead reaching up to undo the clasp at his throat that held the mantle he wore in place. Then he placed the heavy length of white wool over Denethor's body, making sure that it covered the poor severed head as well.

For the first time the Lord of the Nazgûl looked over at me. I couldn't tell from his expression whether he was angry -- or possibly pleased that I had provided him with an excuse to eliminate one of his enemies. All I knew was that I felt as if someone had hit me over the head with a heavy, blunt object. Repeatedly. Now, I'm not going to lie and say I would shed bitter tears over Denethor's death -- after all, I didn't know the man, and what little I had seen hadn't exactly endeared him to me -- but it's always shocking when someone in your immediate vicinity comes to a sudden, violent end. Add to that the fact that the person who brought about said violent end happens to be the man you're in love with, and it's enough to make anyone a little shell-shocked.

"Sarah," Gorendil said. "I think it is time we returned home." He extended a gloved hand to me, and I, not knowing what else to do, stepped forward and took it. My gaze met Gandalf's for a second, and I mouthed, _I'm so sorry_, before the Lord of the Nazgûl pulled me away and down the main corridor of the citadel, the one that led to the gate which opened on the street.

The wizard had shaken his head almost imperceptibly at my inadequate words, but whether I should take the movement to mean he didn't accept my apology, or that he knew it hadn't been my fault, I wasn't sure. All I did know was that Gorendil strode along so swiftly I had to push myself to an undignified trot to keep up with him. That parting-of-the-Red-Sea trick worked as well here in Gondor as it had in Barad Dûr -- everyone in the vicinity hastened to get out of the Witchking's way as he moved like a thundercloud through the citadel and down into the streets of Minas Tirith themselves.

Once we reached our house, the guards stepped forth quickly to open the door so that the Nazgûl lord wouldn't be forced to wait for entry. He brushed past them without even a sideways glance, then surprised Araneth as she was setting out fresh candles on the side tables in the tall-ceilinged sitting room where I worked at my embroidery. She gave a frightened squeak, dropped a long yellow beeswax taper, and fled. In the silence that followed her departure the sound of the candle rolling across the tabletop and then cracking against the stone floor was ominously loud.

Gorendil seemed to make no note of the servant girl's hasty exit. Instead, he grasped one of the chairs and pulled it away from the table with a harsh scrape of wood against stone. "Sit down," he said.

I sat. His tone allowed no argument, and I didn't know what to say to him anyway. Maybe it hadn't been the smartest thing in the world for me to go up to the citadel, but I certainly hadn't meant any harm. Things had started out so well with Gandalf, but I should have realized that not everyone in Gondor would share his more accepting view of my situation.

The Lord of the Nazgûl remained standing over me for a moment, and then he pulled out another chair and sat down, facing me. "I suppose you think I am angry with you," he said at last.

"The thought had crossed my mind," I replied, giving him a cautious glance. The funny thing was, he didn't look particularly mad. Then again, he didn't look particularly _anything_. His mouth was firm and unsmiling, the black brows straight and expressionless -- just as always.

"I am angry, yes," he admitted. "But not with you."

That comment encouraged me to inquire, "So don't you think you...over-reacted...a little?" I closed my eyes briefly, seeing again Gorendil's flaming sword cutting through Denethor's neck like a pair of rotary shears through China silk. The image seemed to be permanently burned into my retinas, and I swallowed, feeling slightly ill once again.

"Not at all," he said immediately. "He insulted you, and any insult made against you is also an insult to me, and to Mordor as well. Examples must be made. I doubt anyone will utter such slurs against you in the future."

I had no doubt of that. Truth be told, I'd managed to avoid confrontations most of my life, and so up until this point about the worst anyone had ever called me was "bitch" -- and in that case the epithet had been completely unwarranted. Two summers ago I had done the costumes for a local production of _My Fair Lady_, and the woman they had cast as Eliza was a complete prima donna. She hadn't liked me from the first day of rehearsals, mainly because the guy who was playing Professor Higgins had asked me if I was going to be his leading lady -- to which I'd replied no, I was just the wardrobe mistress -- and he'd been visibly disappointed when he saw Lindsey, the real Eliza. To be perfectly honest, I was a lot prettier than she was, but she did have an amazing voice. It's just too bad she didn't have the personality to match. Anyway, we'd been in the final round of fittings prior to dress rehearsal, and her gown for the Embassy Ball scene turned out to be too tight. She of course tried to make it all my fault, while I pointed out that she must have gained some weight. That's when the b-word made its grand entrance, but I was vindicated once I pulled out the original measurements I'd taken of her and then re-measured her once again. Sure enough, she'd gained almost an inch around the waist -- which may not seem like much, but when you're constructing a close-fitting ball gown, it makes a huge difference. The upshot of this particular tempest in a teapot was that yours truly ended up having to rip out a bunch of seams to make the gown fit. It was an unpleasant episode all around, but having some diva call you a bitch does sort of pale in comparison to the Steward of Gondor hurling tasty epithets like "harlot" and "whore" at you.

But as angry as his words had made me, of course the last thing I'd wanted was for him to lose his life because of a few ill-considered phrases. I remained silent, but Gorendil must have seen the condemnation in my face, for he said, "Do you think that the death of one man at my hand matters at all to me? He is but the latest of thousands. Or did you never wonder anything about my past as Lord of Angmar and chief lieutenant to Sauron?"

Well, to be perfectly honest, I really hadn't. Oh, I knew that he wasn't Mr. Nice Guy -- far from it -- but it's one thing to have a vague thought on the subject floating around in the back of your mind and quite another to be told point-blank that your lover has the blood of thousands on his hands. Now some of those -- or many, I didn't know for sure -- could have come about during wartime, and if you're in a kill-or-be-killed sort of situation, then of course the rules are different. But how many had he killed in cold blood, as coolly as he'd lopped off Denethor's head? How many had died because Sauron commanded it? And how many had been executed during Gorendil's rule of the ancient kingdom of Angmar?

I couldn't bear it. I closed my eyes so I wouldn't have to look at him. _Please let this be over_, I thought. _Let me wake up now. I don't care if I'm lying in a hospital bed somewhere. I don't even care if that scumbag Drew dumped Rufies in my drink and had his way with me in the spare bedroom. Just please let me wake up --_

"Sarah."

Unwillingly, I opened my eyes to see Gorendil watching me. His gaze seemed to soften a bit at my obvious distress, but his tone was still stern as he continued, "Would you rather not know? Would you rather I kept you in ignorance of who I am and what I have done? I am not asking for your forgiveness, or even your understanding." He hesitated, then said quietly, "Acceptance...perhaps."

At those words my throat tightened. Could I give him what he asked for? And if I couldn't, what then? Would he allow me to leave him? But even as the thought crossed my mind, I realized that wasn't an option for me. _You can hate what a person has done without hating the person himself_, my mother had once told me, when I asked her why any woman would choose to stay with a man who was a criminal or an alcoholic. At the time I couldn't comprehend why anyone would want to be with someone who was less than desirable, but unfortunately now I began to understand that sort of situation all too well. Maybe I was an idiot, but I realized that love wasn't something you could just turn off or on like a water faucet. Despite everything, I knew that I loved him, and the thought of not being with him made my heart ache the way Denethor's brutal execution had not. If that made me a morally deficient person, well, so be it. I hadn't asked to come here. I hadn't asked for any of it. But now that I was here, I knew all I really wanted was to be with Gorendil for as long as I possibly could.

"I'm sorry that I caused all this," I replied at last. "I shouldn't have gone up there -- I shouldn't -- "

At that he finally reached out and pulled me against him. His arms tightened around me, and then he said, "You cannot be responsible for the actions of others. Did you say anything to Lord Denethor, to raise his ire and cause him to insult you?"

I shook my head. "No -- I had just been speaking with Gandalf -- and then he said that Arwen had come -- " I broke off, realizing that I had completely forgotten about her arrival in the aftermath of Denethor's execution. "How horrible for her," I murmured. "To have come all the way to Gondor, only to find that the Steward was killed just as she arrived -- "

"Better she should learn now of the realities of life under Mordor's rule," Gorendil said immediately. "I confess that I was somewhat surprised to learn that she had come here. I would have thought she would flee Middle Earth with the rest of her kind."

"She came because she loves him," I replied. "I'd like to think that I would have done the same in her situation."

I felt Gorendil's lips brush against my hair as he said, "I know you would. For you have come here with me, and you will go to Isengard when the time comes as well."

My heart beat a little faster at his words. I had forgotten about that -- forgotten that our time here was limited, and that sooner than I would like we'd move on to oversee the next stage of Sauron's conquest of Middle Earth. No doubt all of Gondor would be glad to see us go, although I somehow doubted that whoever took charge of Minas Tirith after the Lord of the Nazgûl had left would be much of an improvement. "But I wish we could stay," I whispered, pressing my face against his black-clad chest.

He surprised me by saying, "As do I. I find this place -- pleasant." His fingers traced their way down a stray lock of my hair. "But my wishes do not count here. I must do as Sauron commands, and I fear his patience is wearing thin."

I wanted to tell Gorendil where Sauron could put his patience, but I knew that would be useless. No, we were all pawns to the Dark Lord -- even the Witchking, his oldest and most trusted servant. "When?" I asked.

"Soon -- no more than a week. This business with Denethor will cause more ill feeling, I am sure, but there are certain matters that must be addressed before we move on to Isengard. So I have convinced Sauron, but he is eager to see his reach extended beyond Gondor and Rohan, and has granted me no more time than that."

So it was true. "And what will he do with all of Middle Earth, once he has it?" I asked, unable to keep the bitterness out of my voice. "Turn it into a huge slag heap like Mordor? Destroy everything that's beautiful?"

Gorendil shook his head. His eyes had a faraway, brooding look as he replied, "Truly, I do not know, Sarah, and once I would have said I do not care. But now..." He paused, and I felt his arms tighten about me slightly. "Now I find there is much in this world deserving of protection. And every day I find it more difficult -- " The words trailed off.

"'Find it more difficult' to what?" I prompted.

Again a shake of his head. "I told you once that I am bound to Sauron, bound by the ring he fashioned and used to enslave me so many years ago. But somehow -- somehow the longer I am with you, the less pull I feel from Mordor, from the Dark Lord. Even now I would find it difficult to speak with him, were it not for the palantír I brought with me from Minas Morgul. Whether Sauron has noticed this change, I do not yet know. We often used the palantírs to communicate in the past, so possibly he is yet unaware that his hold on me is weakening. He has said nothing, and I have noticed no alteration in his manner, but I doubt that matters can continue in this way forever."

"And what then?" I asked. For some reason, my mouth felt dry. I had the feeling that Sauron would be less than thrilled to discover that his favorite was no longer completely under his thumb.

The flint-gray eyes were unreadable. "I do not know, Sarah," he said, after a long pause.

Well, that was comforting. And aside from whatever nastiness might ensue for Gorendil, there was also the pleasant thought that Sauron might blame me for whatever had gone wrong with the Lord of the Nazgûl's mind control -- putting aside the fact that the Dark Lord was the one who had actually played matchmaker with Gorendil and me. I had the feeling that Sauron would probably overlook little details like that when on a rampage.

But I also knew that this latest development had Gorendil worried enough without me adding my own two cents about it, so instead of fretting over the consequences of Denethor's execution, or picking apart the possible fate of the lands beyond Gondor and Rohan, I lifted my head and kissed him very gently. "At least we're here together now," I said.

For the first time in too long I saw him smile, and then he pressed his lips against mine, while I opened my mouth to his, tasting him, feeling my body rouse from his embrace. A moment later he gathered me up, bearing me away from the sitting room and up the curved stone staircase that led to the bedrooms on the second floor. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Araneth's scandalized look as Gorendil carried me past, but at that point I didn't much care what she thought. Let her try to figure out how a Ringwraith could possibly be interested in matters of the flesh -- or how I could possibly be willing to accept his advances. All I wanted then was the reassurance of his body against mine, the sensation of him filling me once more.

And that, of course, Gorendil was eager to give me. The bedroom door had hardly been slammed behind us before he flung off his gloves and went to work on the buttons down the front of my dress. At the same time I struggled with his bulky garments, fingers fumbling with his cloak clasp and the myriad layers of his Ringwraith garb. At last we were both free -- free to fall to the bed, to drown ourselves in one another, until we became the only universe that mattered and blessed oblivion claimed me once again.


	14. The Grace of Lady Arwen

Well, looks like ff.n finally got its act together and let me upload this -- it should have been up yesterday, but... Anyway, here it is -- and thank you to everyone for your lovely reviews.

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Chapter 14: The Grace of Lady Arwen

"What are you doing?" Araneth's tone was diffident; I could tell she still had difficulty approaching me after Gorendil and I had re-enacted that scene from _Gone With the Wind_ where Rhett carries Scarlett up the staircase and takes her into the bedroom to have his wicked way with her.

I laid the parchment-wrapped piece of charcoal I had been using down on the tabletop and scowled at my handiwork. "Trying to draw."

She edged closer so that she could get a better view of the sketch I had been working on. While I certainly didn't think of myself as a great artist by any stretch of the imagination, I'd been drawing costumes since I could practically hold onto a pencil, and I wasn't too bad at portraits. When it came to anything besides people I didn't fare nearly as well, but luckily a costume designer is called on to sketch human beings far more often than she is, say, a bowl of fruit.

"He's handsome," Araneth said after a moment. "Who is he?"

"Gor -- the Lord of the Nazgûl," I replied. "This is how he looks to me...well, mostly. I can't seem to get the eyes quite right." Frowning, I picked up the charcoal and added a bit more shadowing to the area under his eyebrows, trying to achieve that hooded look I knew so well.

"Oh," she breathed. "No wonder -- " She broke off, flushing a little. "Forgive me, my lady. But I had tried to understand -- "

"How I could be with a wraith?" I finished. "Don't worry -- I'm sure I would have thought the same thing if I'd been you. He's not a wraith to me, but a real man."

If anything, her flush deepened a little. Biting her lip, she stared down at the unfinished little sketch, then said, "The city is flying with rumors. Ever since Lord Denethor -- " And again her words faltered. She twisted one hand in the heavy linen of her gown's skirt.

Of that I had no doubt. Obviously Gorendil had not allowed me out of the house after the execution of the Steward, but somehow I could almost feel the rising tension in Minas Tirith. His brutal handling of the situation had shocked even me, and I hadn't known Denethor, nor had him as my ruler. Even after Gorendil and I had made love, my sleep was wracked with nightmares where I saw that flaming sword strike the unarmed man -- or worse, where my lover held my head against a chopping block to kill me himself. That one made me sit bolt upright in bed, sobbing for breath. Uncharacteristically, he'd been there -- so often he left our bed after I had fallen asleep -- and held me until my breathing calmed once more. He'd tried to get me to tell him what was wrong, but I found I couldn't. I'd only said that I'd had a nightmare but couldn't remember the details, and that apparently had appeased him enough that he didn't ask any more questions, and instead just ran a soothing hand over my hair until I finally fell back asleep.

"It was a horrible thing he did," I said, after an uncomfortable pause. "I know that. He came to my defense, that is true, but I hadn't asked for his help, and I certainly never thought that things would go so far."

Worry seemed to etch itself on her features. I wouldn't say Araneth was exactly pretty, but she had an appealing smile and the sort of face that almost always seemed happy, so when she looked downcast, as she did now, the change was even more apparent. "But you're still here with him," she said slowly.

"Yes," I replied. "I know that's awful, but what else can I do? I can't help it if I -- if I love him." The words were more difficult to get out than I had thought. It's one thing to think such things to yourself, or even to say to the person you were in love with, but to speak of such private feelings to someone I didn't know very well was even harder. But I also realized that I wanted Araneth to know I stayed with Gorendil because of how I felt for him, and not because I was afraid to leave.

"There are mysteries at work here I don't understand, my lady," Araneth said, and I thought, _You don't know the half of it!_

But I just said, "That's true. I am very sorry for the pain that Denethor's death must have caused his family and the people of Gondor, especially with -- " I floundered for a moment, wondering how I could possibly put into words the sort of anguish Araneth and everyone else around her must be feeling at being a subject kingdom to Mordor. " -- well, with everything that's been going on," I concluded, thinking that I must sound like a complete idiot.

To my surprise, she looked unexpectedly sympathetic. "Mithrandir has been counseling calm -- one of the servant girls up in the citadel overheard him talking to my Lord Faramir, when Faramir wanted to come down here and challenge the Lord of the Nazgûl -- and get _his_ head knocked clean off as well, I'm sure." Araneth frowned slightly, and I reflected that it really was true -- secrets were impossible to keep when servants were around. I'd always thought that was just a plot device in my mother's Regency romance novels. "Mithrandir says that you did nothing to provoke his attack, and although the Lord of the Nazgûl should have shown more restraint, it was no fault of yours."

Her words reassured me more than she could probably know. Oh, the place was still a powder keg, but if Gandalf was doing his best to keep the peace, then maybe there was hope that things could be kept under control until Gorendil and I moved on to Isengard. Probably we wouldn't get any more cheery a reception there, but if the Witchking could avoid knocking off the heads of any chiefs of state in the area it would be a step in the right direction.

"I'm glad to hear that Gandalf doesn't blame me," I began, then paused. From the opposite side of the house I thought I heard a sound from the front door. Then it came again -- a definite knock. Who the hell would be coming to call on a house occupied by the Lord of the Nazgûl?

Araneth heard it, too. "Should I go answer it, my lady?"

"I suppose so," I replied, then laid my sketch of Gorendil on the table and stood. "No one's come to call since we settled here, but -- " With a lift of my shoulders, I turned and moved quickly to the circular antechamber that opened off the entryway. Araneth hurried along beside me, and opened the door at my nod.

At first all I could see were the two Easterling soldiers who always guarded my front door, but then I realized a much slighter figure wearing a gray hooded cloak stood between them.

"She insisted to see you, lady," said one of the soldiers, his accent thick but understandable. Well, that answered one question. I guess they were just taciturn out of habit and not because they couldn't speak the common tongue.

As I looked through the front door, mystified, the stranger reached up to push back the hood, and I suddenly found myself staring at the beautiful features of Arwen Undomiél.

At least, I assumed it had to be she. From beneath her midnight-dark hair I could see just the slightest suggestion of pointed ear tips, and she was so astonishingly lovely I couldn't imagine who else it might be -- after all, how many goddesses could Middle Earth hold at one time? The films did their best to portray elves, and Liv Tyler is certainly gorgeous, but what the movies couldn't do was capture such amazing perfection, from the luminous skin to the glow of Arwen's eyes. I got that same sensation of unearthly beauty as I did when I looked at Sauron, except here of course there was no underlying evil, no malice at the heart, like a worm in the middle of a ripe fruit.

"Forgive me," she said, and her voice was as beautiful as her face. "But I very much needed to speak with you."

"Of -- of course," I stammered, hating the flat sound of my Southern California accent in contrast to her pure, rounded tones. "Come in."

And I backed away from the door, with Araneth looking on in wide-eyed wonder before she dipped a hasty curtsey and then straightened again, her mouth slightly open as she stared at the half-Elven betrothed of the king.

"We can go to my sitting room," I said, thinking furiously as to how I should handle the situation. Gorendil of course was back up at the citadel, and I didn't think he would return for some time, since it was only about two o'clock in the afternoon. I wasn't sure how he would react to Arwen's presence in his house, although I of course was dying to know why she had come. I asked, "Araneth, can you run to the kitchen and bring some refreshments?" I didn't specify exactly what; I figured the servant girl had a much better idea of what would be appropriate in those circumstances than I would.

"Right away, my lady," she said, and bolted in the direction of the kitchen.

I tried to maintain a more dignified pace as I led Arwen into the pretty chamber with the tall mullioned windows that had become my unofficial sitting room. The sun shone again today, and light filled the space, warming the tapestries on the walls and rendering the lit candles on the table mostly useless.

As I pointed out a chair for Arwen to sit in, I racked my brains for similar scenarios in books I'd read or movies I'd seen, since I didn't want to do anything to offend her or sound grossly out of place. "You honor me with your visit," I said at last, hoping that sounded dignified enough.

Arwen smiled slightly, revealing teeth as perfect as the rest of her. "This must seem rather strange, I know," she replied. "Indeed, my lord Aragorn does not even know that I am here."

That flummoxed me slightly, but luckily I was saved from having to make an immediate reply by the arrival of Araneth with a tray carrying some of the sweet, shortbread-like white cakes popular here in Minas Tirith, as well as a flagon of pale yellow wine and a pair of silver goblets. In awed silence she poured a bit of wine out for both of us, then curtseyed to Arwen again -- ignoring me completely, but I could understand her preoccupation -- before finally hurrying out of the room.

To fill the silence I lifted my goblet and sipped at my wine, as Arwen followed suit. Her crystalline gray eyes watched me with some curiosity over the rim of her drinking vessel. "Mithrandir has told me something of you," she went on, before placing the goblet back down on the table. "At first glance you would seem to be distant kin to me, but he has said that somehow you are not of this world at all."

Her tone sounded quite matter-of-fact, as if such things were commonplace to her, but maybe to someone whose kind could somehow journey beyond the edge of the world to the Blessed Realm Mike had told me about it wasn't that big a deal. "That's true," I said. "I'm from somewhere far beyond Middle Earth." And how far exactly? I wondered. Was I separated from my own world by uncountable millions of miles, or just the thinnest membrane of skewed subatomic particles? And did it really matter, since I couldn't seem to figure out a way how to get back there anyway? I thought of Gorendil then, and wondered if I would want to go back even if I could manage it somehow. Was one man worth giving up your whole life over? Then my gaze returned to Arwen, who looked somehow a little sad, as if she had guessed at my thoughts.

"Mithrandir has spoken also of this man who is your protector, the Lord of the Nazgûl," she said. "Although perhaps 'man' is not the correct word to use."

"It does well enough," I replied, feeling myself blush a little. My gaze strayed to the charcoal sketch that still lay a little off to one side on the table, and she looked over at it as well.

"Is that he?" she asked quietly.

"Yes," I said, embarrassed that such an exalted creature would be looking at my clumsy artwork. "It's not that good a likeness -- I haven't had that much training -- "

"Peace," she said, and her voice had a slight lift to it, as if from hidden laughter. "I can see it was drawn with a loving hand."

If anything, the heat in my cheeks seemed to increase even more. To cover my discomfort, I lifted my goblet and took a reckless swallow of wine.

"We have that in common, you and I," she continued. "To have found love outside our kind, and to find ourselves forsaking what others expected of us in order to be with the men we love."

I nodded, although I was fairly certain that Aragorn had found more approval from Elrond than Gorendil could expect from my own father, even in the highly unlikely event that they ever actually met. For one thing, just by appearance alone Gorendil looked old enough to actually _be_ my father, and second, even if we got past that particular little hurdle, I could just imagine my dad giving him the customary third degree over his prospects: "Well, Gorendil, let's overlook the whole age difference problem for now. So where did you go to school? Do you really think there's a future in being the chief henchman of an evil overlord? Do you have benefits? And what about children? Are there any good preschools in Middle Earth?" Just thinking about it was enough to make me cringe.

Because Arwen was watching me carefully, obviously expecting an answer, I said, "I suppose it's hard for people to understand...to everyone else I suppose he is a monster. But he's not, although what he's done lately hasn't helped much to change people's opinion."

Her expression was grave. "That was a bad business. It seems that although Denethor was not loved as his sons are, still he led Gondor through a difficult time, and the Nazgûl lord's actions have only pressed home that this land is now completely subject to the whims of Mordor." Finally she lifted her own goblet and drank slowly, then replaced the shining silver cup on the table. "I speak frankly to you because now that I have met you and seen what is in your heart, I know that you are no true minion of Mordor. What strange events have brought you to this place I do not know, but perhaps there is a design in your being here. Perhaps you are meant to help us through these dark times."

"But -- but I _caused_ these dark times!" I cried. "Didn't Gandalf tell you? If it weren't for me, Sauron wouldn't even have the Ring! He was supposed to be defeated, and you were all supposed to go on to live happy lives! I've ruined everything!" Again I could feel the tears begin to build in my eyes, but I blinked them angrily away. I'd done far too much weeping over the past few days, and I certainly didn't want to dissolve into a sodden red-eyed mess in front of this perfect creature.

"Sometimes the blade must be returned to the forge several times before it is truly tempered," she said softly. "Yes, Gandalf spoke of what you said should have come to pass, and somehow did not. The hour is dark, but I cannot believe that you came here with no purpose. You have but to find it."

_Easy for you to say_, I thought bitterly, but her words stirred something inside me. True, I had created this whole horrible mess, but there had to be some way to fix it. Sauron couldn't continue to hold the Ring -- it had been taken from him once, and somehow I'd have to find a way to do it again. The mere thought made me feel slightly sick to my stomach -- after all, it had taken an entire army of Elves and men to defeat Sauron the first time around, and it seemed that most of the Elves in this age had taken the Dark Lord up on his offer to depart Middle Earth. Gondor's armies had already been dispersed. How, then, could Sauron ever be confronted?

Not by strength, certainly, but maybe by stealth. I recalled then how Gorendil had told me of his weakening connection to the Dark Lord. Perhaps I could somehow convince my lover that Sauron must be overthrown. Would he help me? Could we possibly conceal our plans long enough to deceive Mordor? And even if we were somehow successful, was I asking the Lord of the Nazgûl to sign his own death warrant by defeating Sauron and destroying the One Ring? Would Gorendil and all his fellow Nazgûl be annihilated once the Ring that bound them all together was no more?

I didn't have answers to any of these questions, but somehow Arwen's quiet remark had lit a fire within me. I had to fix what I had broken...even if it killed me. Certainly I had given them all up to save my own life, but with each passing day I began to understand more and more what that moment of weakness had done to Middle Earth and everyone in it. Their misery, their ruined lives, were worth far more than my single existence.

For a moment Arwen regarded me carefully, no doubt noting the changing expressions on my face. As I've said before, it's very difficult for me to conceal my emotions, and perhaps she was able to see the resolve that began to grow in me then.

"My Lord Elrond wished for me to depart these shores immediately, to return to the West," she said, in her clear, elegant voice. "But I knew that even though the world had fallen under shadow, my place was here with Lord Aragorn. It would be a fair-weather love indeed, if I had denied him after all his years of toil and waiting, simply because things had not turned out as we wished."

"I'm sure it's heartened everyone to have you here," I said, and I meant it. Something in her very presence seemed to speak of calm, of hope, and even with the death of Denethor and everything else that had gone wrong, surely her being at Aragorn's side would help to show the people of Minas Tirith -- and Gondor -- that there still was something worth living for.

"That was my hope," Arwen replied. "This is not the Gondor I had dreamt of, when I plighted my troth to Lord Aragorn so many years ago. But since he trusted me to be its queen, I knew I could not abandon Gondor -- or its king." Her delicate fingers wrapped around the stem of the goblet, but she did not lift it to take another drink. For a second she seemed to frown, but then her brow cleared, and she said, "We will be wed very soon, and that is part of the reason why I came to see you."

My heart lifted a little. Had she come here to ask me to attend the ceremony?

"Although this is not my wish, it is the wish of the king, and Lord Faramir, and many others of the court here in Gondor. They want none of you or your Nazgûl lord on this occasion, and therefore Lord Aragorn and I are to be married in secret."

All I could manage in reply was a murmured, "Oh."

She did not flinch away from looking at me. "I think you can understand why. Gandalf knows there is no malice in you, and I have seen that as well, but to convince others of it -- " Her shoulders lifted under the silver silk of her gown. "But I felt I should at least come to you and tell you. If Aragorn knew I were here, no doubt he would think me misguided, and that you were worthy of no such consideration."

Truthfully, I halfway agreed with Aragorn's assessment of the situation. Perhaps protocol demanded that those who controlled Gondor should be present at such an important ceremony, but this was a private matter, after all, and I'd already done enough to ruin things. "I don't mind," I said hastily. "But I do thank you for coming to tell me in person. It's more than I deserve, really."

"Not at all," she answered. "This is a courtesy I would have given even to one less deserving than you. It does not hurt the giver to extend what grace he may, and if the recipient is less than grateful, then that reflects on him, not the one who has given the courtesy. You have a kind face, Sarah Monaghan -- I know there is no evil in you. All I can do is hope that you might find a way to extend your own grace, so that you might influence those who have need of it."

I hoped the same as well. My path wasn't yet clear, but if nothing else Arwen had somehow said the right words to show me that I must do something to correct the situation.

"But now I should go," she said, and stood, gracefully arranging the glinting folds of her skirts as she did so. "Too much longer, and I will be missed."

"Of course," I replied, rising myself. "I do thank you for coming to see me. And I hope your wedding will be everything you wished for."

"It will...because I will have him." Arwen smiled, and the day suddenly seemed a little brighter. "You understand this, I think. One should never discount the power of love." Then she lifted one elegant hand to my cheek, touched it briefly, and said, "Courage, my child." And with that she gathered up her cloak and slipped out, so quickly that at first I wasn't sure she had gone.

But then I heard the front door close behind her, and knew she had left as unobtrusively as she had come. Her visit had probably lasted only about fifteen minutes or so, but that small quarter-hour had changed me somehow. Now I had a purpose.

All I could do was wait for Gorendil to come home, and to discover whether he would be my ally or my enemy in my newfound quest to destroy the Ring...


	15. An Unlikely Gift

Thanks for all the continuing reviews, everyone -- just one happy review is enough to make my day! (OK, I'll admit it, I'm a feedback junkie.) Anyhow, we're sort of into the beginning of the end here...probably there will only be another three or four chapters after this.

* * *

Chapter 15: An Unlikely Gift

Two days before we left for Isengard, I got my "monthly visitor," as my mother so delicately puts it. This would have been even more of a nightmare than usual if I hadn't had Araneth around to help me out, but it did illustrate the fact that modern living has a lot to recommend it besides cell phones and flush toilets. It also brought home to me the realization that there probably weren't going to be any little Ringwraiths running around any time soon. I'd wondered about that, of course -- Gorendil had some pretty fabulous genetic material to contribute to the equation, but I wasn't sure I really wanted to play mommy at quite such an early age. Not that it mattered now.

So I felt a little sad but mostly relieved, and halfway amused at Gorendil's reaction to my situation. Obviously it had been many, many years since he'd had to worry about the ramifications of women's indoor plumbing. I snapped at him for something stupid, then apologized and explained that I was moody because it was "that time of the month," and he'd looked at me blankly for a moment before comprehension finally dawned. Then he made a comment about not noticing that I was any moodier than usual, which of course precipitated more snarkiness on my part before I dissolved into tears and he suddenly remembered something of pressing importance he had to attend to elsewhere.

Ah, hormones.

I'd kept thinking of our move to Isengard as something that was going to happen some time in the hazy future, but Gorendil had made a timetable and intended to stick to it -- already Araneth was packing my things, and the house had that somehow forlorn look of a place that's about to be abandoned. As she'd told me, Arwen married Aragorn quietly the day after we spoke, at a ceremony attended by only a few people -- Gandalf, the hobbits, Faramir and other Gondorian notables, the Rangers who had accompanied Arwen down from the North.

To my surprise, Gorendil really didn't seem to care one way or another. "Their affairs are their own business," he told me. "What does it matter if Gondor now has a powerless queen to sit next to her equally ineffectual king?"

_And whose fault is that?_ I thought, but didn't bother to answer the question, since I knew the fault was mine. After that I went into another fit of the sulks, but Gorendil appeared to be used to them by that point and left -- but not before he gave me a gentle admonishment to make sure I would be ready to depart at first light the next morning.

Even though I'd only been in Minas Tirith for ten days, I knew I would miss it -- miss this lovely house, and Araneth's chatter and lopsided smiles, the sense that however odd the circumstances, Gorendil and I had made some sort of home here. From what I could recall of the films, Isengard hadn't looked particularly cozy.

Nor had I found a chance to speak to Gorendil about what I had resolved after seeing Arwen. To be sure, there's no easy way to approach someone about committing an act that might well lead to his demise, let alone betraying someone he'd served for more years than I wanted to imagine. I didn't know for sure that unmaking the Ring would destroy Gorendil, of course -- I didn't really know anything. All I had was the desire to try and undo what I had done. Going to Isengard seemed to be a step in the wrong direction, since we'd only be that much farther from Mordor, but at this point I knew I couldn't possibly come up with a good reason for Gorendil to override direct orders from Sauron, so I guessed I'd just have to bide my time and wait for the right opening.

Gorendil had told me to get ready for departure, but truthfully, I really didn't have that much to do. Araneth had already packed all my belongings, save the new riding outfit that had been commissioned for me while we were here in Minas Tirith, as well as a few odds and ends I couldn't pack until the last minute. I'd worried a bit about what would become of Araneth and the other servants, but she'd confided to me that they'd be going on to work in Faramir's household after this, so that was all right.

I was sitting on the edge of the bed, carefully checking through the large saddlebag in which Araneth had packed my gowns and other articles of clothing, when she approached me. In her arms she held a long, narrow parcel.

"What's that?" I asked, withdrawing my hand from the saddlebag and hoping that I hadn't disordered the neat stacks of clothing enough so that she would notice.

Her manner seemed somewhat subdued; although Gorendil still terrified her, I liked to think that she had come to enjoy my company, and maybe she was a little saddened by our imminent departure. She held out the parcel to me, and said, "I don't know what it is. It just came for you -- brought by one of the guards of the king."

Mystified, I set to work at untying a piece of string that held several lengths of coarse muslin wrapped around whatever it was they concealed. Then the fabric fell away, and Araneth and I both simultaneously gasped.

It was a sword. A very short sword, really just a long knife for someone as tall as Gorendil. It had an elegant leaf-shaped blade, and I could see Elvish script running along its length, even though of course I had no idea what the lovely scrolling words said. There were no orcs around to make it gleam blue, but as I grasped it by the hilt and lifted it, marveling at how light it felt, I realized what it must be. Sting.

A note had fluttered to the floor after I unwrapped the package; Araneth knelt and retrieved it, then handed it to me.

Luckily I found I could read the words, which were written in a strong, slanting hand. _I shan't need this where I'm going_, the note ran, _but the Queen seemed to think that you might have need of it. Bilbo told me once it was made by the Elves in Gondolin and has the power to withstand the forces of Mordor. I hope it will aid you in your quest._

The note was unsigned, but I knew it had to have come from Frodo. And here I thought he hated me -- and had every right to, after what had happened in Sauron's audience chamber. Then again, who knows what Arwen had told him? _Sometimes the blade must be returned to the forge several times before it is truly tempered_, she had said. I wasn't sure if Sting was meant to be the hammer and Sauron the anvil, with me sandwiched uncomfortably somewhere in between. But my odds did seem to improve somewhat with an Elven-forged weapon on my side.

Araneth was watching me with wide eyes, her gaze traveling from my face to the gleaming blade I held and back again. "What is it?" she asked.

"A present," I said shortly. I couldn't possibly begin to explain to the other girl what I had planned...and better that she not know anything anyway. "From the Queen." That was easier than trying to explain that it had come from Frodo. Bending down, I retrieved the muslin that had wrapped the sword and began winding it around the blade once again. "Do you think it will fit in my pack?"

She eyed the bulky object I held, looked at the saddlebag, and said, "I think so. Let me -- " And she reverently lifted the disguised Elven blade from my hands and somehow disposed it among my various gowns. Once she was done you couldn't even tell that I carried something so precious in my bag.

"Thank you, Araneth," I said. Then, feeling the awkwardness of the moment, I added, "I wish we didn't have to leave."

Blue eyes somber, she looked back at me. "I know it sounds odd for me to say it -- what with who else lives here -- but I wish you didn't, either. There are many who will be glad to say farewell to the Lord of the Nazgûl, but who knows but that the one he leaves behind in his place won't be worse?"

I had no answer to that. The other Ringwraiths had never really differentiated themselves to me; all I knew was that the one who would be left to rule Minas Tirith was named Khamûl and that he had been an Easterling when he was still a man. "I hope not," I said at last. "But I can't say for certain. I don't know anything of Lord Khamûl."

She nodded, then said, "Everything is different now."

Oh, didn't I know it? Of course, I had been dropped into a completely new world where nothing was familiar, but in a way she and all the other people of Middle Earth had suffered the same sort of vertigo-inspiring reality shift. I'm sure none of them had actually thought that one day they would be ruled by Sauron, their lives no longer their own. "It will get better," I replied, feeling again that knotted anxious sensation in my stomach that seemed to arise whenever I thought about confronting the Dark Lord. I wished I could be like the Elves and just get on a tall white ship and sail into the West. But it wouldn't be that simple for me.

At my comment she merely nodded, then turned and left me to brood over the gift Frodo had sent me, and whether I would have the courage to use it. Some time later Gorendil returned home, and we slept side by side in the tall carved bed for one final night. In the morning a heavily armed train of men met us to escort the Lord of the Nazgûl to Isengard, and Araneth closed the tall wooden doors of the house behind me for the last time.

I never saw Minas Tirith again.

* * *

Isengard had transformed itself. I know that Saruman had torn up all the trees and dug huge pits in the ground to accommodate his war machines and his orc-breeding grounds -- or whatever you wanted to call them. Since I had dropped into Middle Earth after the battle of the Hornburg and the overthrow of Saruman, I assumed that the wizard was still wandering around somewhere, although Gorendil had told me, with a certain grim satisfaction, that Sauron's agents were seeking the erstwhile lord of Orthanc and would no doubt round him up in due time. And during his absence the Ents had been busy cleaning up the mess they had created at Isengard, although they had made themselves scarce by the time the Lord of the Nazgûl and his occupying army showed up on the scene.

Maybe it hadn't been restored to its former glory, but I was still somewhat relieved to find that the grounds around the tower had been smoothed, with new grass already springing from the rich black earth. Saplings waved their fresh, tiny leaves in the morning breeze, and even the tall spike of Orthanc didn't look quite as forbidding as I had thought it would. It was, surprisingly, rather beautiful here.

And I hoped it might stay that way. Unlike his march on Minas Tirith, Gorendil had brought with him large numbers of orcs to supplement the squadrons of Easterlings and Haradrim. I'd been afraid to ask why -- I didn't know whether Sauron thought the people of Rohan would be more difficult to overcome than those of Gondor, or whether he was staging the armies of orcs here in order to continue the wave of invasion that would spread westward over the mountains and on into the peaceful lands of the Shire and its surrounding regions.

At one point during the long journey to Isengard I had asked Gorendil why the occupying army at Minas Tirith had been composed entirely of men, considering that Sauron had so many orcs at his disposal. He'd frowned and said, "That decision was mine. The orcs would have made a difficult situation impossible."

Privately I agreed with him, but I wanted to know why.

"Orcs do one thing well -- fighting," he'd replied. "They could never have maintained order, cooped up within the walls of the city, working as guards only. There would have been trouble. And also there were the women to consider -- " He trailed off, his mouth pulling to a tight line.

"'The women'?" I echoed. For a second I couldn't think what Gorendil was talking about, and then I looked up at him in horror. "They couldn't -- "

"Oh, yes," he said. "When the fighting and looting is done, they are not above a little rape, if the opportunity presents itself. Indeed, the Dark Lord used to provide female slaves for the use of those _uruks_ who had pleased him in some way."

I made a disgusted noise and shook my head. The thought was completely repellent -- my friend Lisa's comment about that one Uruk-hai in _Fellowship_'s ass notwithstanding. "That's...vile," I said, after a moment of private squicking.

"Yes," he replied, not bothering to defend his master. "But you see now why I allowed no orcs within the walls of Minas Tirith."

_Thank God_, I thought. At least poor Araneth and others like her had been spared that final indignity. The realization also increased my respect for Gorendil, who had no order from Sauron to show the women of Minas Tirith that sort of consideration but did so merely from his own notion of the rightness of things. I'd felt a rush of love for him then. If we'd been alone together I would have shown him how much I appreciated his quiet concern, but since we were riding along next to each other on horseback in plain view of thousands of Sauron's troops, I had to content myself with giving him a grateful smile. More than ever I wished I could just escape with him -- run away to someplace where Sauron could never reach us. But now that the Dark Lord had the Ring, was there such a place in all of Middle Earth?

Unfortunately, the outside of the tower of Orthanc turned out to be much more appealing than the inside. Oh, the interiors had a certain gothic/deco appeal -- somehow I could picture wizards standing around sipping martinis in the large chamber near the top of the tower where it seemed Saruman's actual living quarters had been located. Everything was black, right down to the upholstery on the narrow divans that seemed to scowl at each other from across the room. Actually, what it really reminded me of was this one episode of _Trading Spaces_ where the designer (I think it was Hildy...she has a tendency to do the obnoxious stuff) painted everything black. And I mean _everything_.

"Good thing I don't have a white cat," I remarked, as I slung my packs down on the bed. At least here there was a real bed, as apparently wizards needed to sleep occasionally even though Ringwraiths didn't.

Gorendil gave me a puzzled look. "Why would you have a white cat?"

I thought for a second, wondered if it was worth explaining, then sighed and said, "A white cat would shed all over everything."

Again he watched me that slightly lifted eyebrow. I stared back, and finally he said, "Ah -- it was a joke."

"That's me -- a real laugh riot," I replied, and sat down on the bed. It actually felt fairly comfortable. But I had to thank God that I didn't have an allergy to down or feathers, or I would have spent most of my time in Middle Earth having a severe histamine reaction.

At that he just shook his head, but I thought I saw one corner of his mouth lift slightly.

By this point it was wearing on toward nightfall; through the open window a cool breeze drifted in, carrying with it the various sounds of the huge army encamped throughout the valley. I heard them and shuddered a little. Up here in the tower, alone with Gorendil, I could almost forget why we were here, but the world around me had become a constant reminder of the sorry state of affairs in Middle Earth.

I knew I would probably never get a better chance to broach the subject to the Lord of the Nazgûl, so I said, sounding hesitant even to myself, "Gorendil, why are we _really_ here?"

He gave me a quick glance, the faint smile he still wore fading. His voice was harsh as he replied, "To conquer the West."

Well, I had to hand it to him for not beating around the bush. My stomach roiled again, and I picked at the black-on-black embroidery that decorated the heavy wool coverlet on which I sat. "And you don't have any problems with that?" I asked, not looking up to meet his eyes.

"That is immaterial," he said immediately. "You know I have no choice but to do Sauron's will."

"But is that really true?" Finally I lifted my gaze from the fascinating bedcover and met his clouded gray eyes. "You told me yourself back in Minas Tirith that his grip on you seems to be fading. Is he still in your mind all the time? Is everything you do still controlled by the Red Eye?"

The silence that followed these questions was so lengthy that at first I thought he wasn't going to answer me at all. He turned away from me and walked to the window, no doubt to stare out at the ranks of soldiers camping on the valley floor somewhere far below. Silhouetted as he was against the failing light, his expression was hidden.

When he spoke at last, the words came out slowly, as if he had to think over each one several times before he uttered it. "No...to both those questions. I cannot think of how best to express something that has been a part of me for so many years. Always was I capable of independent thought -- a mindless puppet was not what Sauron needed -- but his wills and desires were twined with mine, so that I could not have told you where his stopped and mine ended. But lately -- " Finally he moved so that he looked down at me. "Lately, I have begun to know what it is that I want, and it is not the same thing Sauron desires."

My heart gave a little leap at that statement. Perhaps this wasn't going to be quite as difficult as I thought. "Gorendil, I -- " For a second I paused; I knew that once I said it there would be no going back. Then I went on, the words rushing together, "I can't let Sauron do this. I have to stop him."

He gave a bitter laugh. "Stop him? You? Forgive me, my love, but I fear you do not appear to have a firm grasp on the situation."

Well, I couldn't argue with him on that. "I started this," I persisted, going ahead stubbornly even as the Lord of the Nazgûl watched me with an increasingly incredulous expression on his face. "And I have to stop it. He was defeated once -- surely he can be defeated again."

"Defeated, yes -- by the combined armies of Elves and men, a force the likes of which Middle Earth will not see again. Are you proposing that you, a young woman alone, with no special powers or abilities, can somehow take on the Dark Lord single-handed?"

"I wouldn't be doing it alone," I replied, and then forced him to meet my eyes. "Not if you were to help me."

Another impenetrable silence followed that statement. I waited, nervously wrapping a fold of my woolen riding skirts around my forefinger. Oh, I'd really done it this time, that much was obvious. Apparently I hadn't gotten quite as good a read on Gorendil's character as I thought. However much he cared about me -- however much he thought I might matter to him -- none of that could possibly break the stranglehold Sauron had on him. Gruesome images of a return to Barad Dûr and a couple of amusing rounds of torture immediately rose to my head. Or maybe Sauron would decide to play Darth Vader again and Force-choke me a few more times.

"And if I were to help you," he said at last, "how do you suggest we defy the Dark Lord? Am I to challenge him to single combat?"

At first I couldn't quite comprehend what he was saying. Then, slowly, the meaning of his words sank in. He hadn't said no. He hadn't said he was going to betray me to Sauron. His tone had been somewhat mocking as he asked the last question, but I couldn't blame him for that -- even I didn't know for sure what I was going to do. "No..." I said at last. "Of course not. But if someone could cut the Ring from his hand before, then it can happen again. And I have the blade to do it."

As he watched, I reached into my pack and slowly drew out the muffled shape of Sting. I unwrapped the sword and held it out level in front of him. The blade flared out bright blue in the dim chamber; no doubt the proximity of so many orcs had given it a massive charge.

Gorendil made no attempt to touch the blade -- maybe he couldn't, as it had been forged by the Elves in Gondolin and was written over with runes to combat the forces of Mordor. But his eyes narrowed as he looked down at the small weapon, which would only be a dagger in comparison to the Dark Lord's massive height. In my own hand it looked like a short sword scaled to my size, similar to the types Roman soldiers once used. Maybe in this case size really didn't matter. It was still big enough -- and definitely sharp enough -- to slice off a finger, even one as oversized as Sauron's.

"Where did you get this thing?" he asked at last.

"Frodo carried it, and he passed it on to me. But I think he did that because Arwen asked him to."

"It has a look of Gondolin," Gorendil said quietly, and I realized he'd probably gone up against Elven warriors wielding these sorts of blades once upon a time.

"That's where it came from, supposedly." I set the blade down on top of a stack of my clothes. "I know it's no Narsil, but would it work?"

"Possibly." He seemed unable to take his eyes off the sword; with abstracted fingers he reached up to push away a lock of hair that had fallen over his forehead. I think that was the first nervous gesture I had ever seen from him. Then again, it couldn't have been easy to look at something that could be the key to your prison door -- or possibly just a one-way ticket to oblivion.

That thought brought the sick, guilty feeling bubbling up into my throat once more. Because I just didn't know, did I? Oh, it was fine and noble to talk of defeating Sauron and destroying the Ring, but there was also at least a fifty-fifty chance (probably worse) that Gorendil wouldn't survive the resulting maelstrom. Now, one could argue that he'd certainly spent far more years walking the planet than anyone had any right to expect, but I'd only had him for a few weeks, and the thought of losing him somehow hurt even more than the thought of Sauron continuing to reign uncontested over Middle Earth. _Well_, I thought with morbid cheer, _I probably won't survive, either, so we can both go out together in a blaze of glory_.

But of course I didn't say that. We stared at each other for a moment, the air heavy with the weight of the unspoken words between us, until at last he came to me and took me in his arms, obviously trying to comfort me the only way he knew how. And afterward, as I stared up at the ceiling and tried to hang on to the afterglow for as long as possible, I tried to tell myself that none of this was going to happen that soon, anyway. After all, Gorendil couldn't just go running back to Mordor on a whim, not when Sauron had placed him in charge of the continuing conquest of Middle Earth. We'd have to wait for an opportunity to present itself.

And I hoped -- how I hoped, selfishly and unreasonably -- that that opportunity would take a very long time to appear.


	16. The Wages of War

Sorry about the delay in posting this -- I got a little behind because of the holiday and everything. Thank you to all my lovely reviewers...it's getting close now.

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Chapter 16: The Wages of War

As it happened, I had more time than I thought. March moved on into April, but it was a spring which brought very few people any joy. Except me, possibly -- one day merged into another, and Gorendil spent his time consumed with carrying out Sauron's commands, but at least I had him at my side every night. Our lovemaking seemed to have taken on an extra level of intensity; it was as if we knew that things couldn't possibly go on like this forever, that something was bound to change at some point. But as the days passed, and no reason came for us to return to Mordor, I began to wonder if my dream of redemption would remain only that -- a dream that had no hope of ever coming true. And some nights, when I awakened in the darkness and saw Gorendil seated at the table across the room, poring over maps or supply requisitions or whatever else was consuming him those days, my heart felt as if it would break at the thought that the destruction of his master might mean the Lord of the Nazgul's destruction as well.

The armies of Mordor were moving across the land, burning and despoiling whatever couldn't be put to use in the service of the Dark Lord. Only a week after we had come to Isengard Théoden led a revolt against the occupying army that had invaded Rohan, but the Rohirrim were greatly outnumbered, and Théoden himself was killed in a bloody battle that raged right up to the hall of Meduseld and burned the great wooden palace to the ground. Both Eomer and Eowyn were captured, along with a great many of the other defenders.

Eomer himself even now lay in some cell in Orthanc; I had never seen him, nor would Gorendil allow me to plead on his behalf, but I'd had better luck with Eowyn's cause. I pointed out that while still in Rohan she might become a rallying point for those of the Rohirrim who weren't completely crushed by their defeat, but if she were sent into exile --

"She could be a ward of King Elessar," I suggested. "At least she would be safe in Gondor, but she would also be far from Rohan, and watched over by Lord Khamûl."

"Not a bad idea," he'd said at last, after appearing to carefully weigh the pros and cons of the matter. "She can do little enough harm there."

And so she had been sent away to Minas Tirith, while I privately congratulated myself on my cleverness. I might have made a horrible mess of things, but perhaps with Eowyn now thrown into close proximity to Faramir, the romance that should have happened and didn't might have another chance to blossom. Luckily Gorendil's underlying sense of chivalry had aided me in the matter -- although I'm certain he wouldn't have hesitated to strike her down had they come up against each other in combat as they'd been intended to, when Eowyn was a helpless prisoner he couldn't bring himself to have her executed. Now she was Khamûl's problem, not his.

I did finally get my answer regarding what happened to Gollum, though. Some time during the first week of April, I sat up in bed after our latest round of lovemaking and watched Gorendil at work with his endless scrolls and pieces of parchment. Usually he stayed beside me until I fell asleep, but that evening he had left our bed almost immediately to continue working in the darkness. At first his ability to read the documents before him in the dark unnerved me a little, but I had to remind myself that whatever he might be to me, he was still a Nazgûl, and didn't need a candle or lamp to light the papers in front of him.

"You never told me about Gollum," I said.

At my words he lifted his head and looked over at me -- or at least I assumed he did. All I could see was a vague shifting of his shape in front of the window. The moon that night was barely half full and didn't give much in the way of illumination. I heard the scratch of Gorendil's quill pen against the parchment, and then he replied, "He's dead."

Although I had half-expected that answer, I still felt a little surprised. "Really?"

"Yes." His voice sounded amused. "I should know, since I killed him myself."

"Oh." The matter-of-fact way he had of making statements like that hadn't yet lost its power to unsettle me. "Um...what happened?"

I couldn't see him shrug, but somehow I had the feeling that's what he did. "When we came upon Frodo and Sam, Gollum was hiding off to one side. I knew he was there, but since he was not the one carrying the Ring it mattered little to me what he did. But as soon as I moved to seize the hobbit, Gollum went wild and attacked me -- foolish creature. He was dead before he got within five paces."

The Ring, with its power to madden and destroy. So another player had been removed from the chess board. As that thought crossed my mind a shiver ran up my back, even though I was covered in warm wool blankets. One by one, the characters who had died in the books were meeting the same fate now...Denethor, Théoden, Gollum. It was almost as if some cosmic force were trying to correct the mistakes I had made. And if that were the case, how long did Gorendil have?

My silence must have dragged on for much longer than he had expected, because the Nazgûl lord said, "You're very quiet. Why would the death of such a one as Gollum trouble you?"

"Oh, that's not what's bothering me," I replied. "Or at least, not the fact that he in particular is dead. But -- " I hesitated, then went on, " -- it's just strange that everyone who dies in the original story has died now as well. I'm not sure what it means."

"Perhaps it means that there is a pattern which is trying to assert itself," he said. His voice sounded calm and quiet, even though he must have known where all this was heading. "You and I both know that things could not have gone on like this forever."

Well, I'd been trying to tell myself that, without much success. But he was right -- for days I had seen smoke rising in the distance and had known it must come from ravaged villages and freeholds across Rohan. How many dead? How many left homeless? Of course I couldn't ask Gorendil for those numbers, and I had to admit that part of me really didn't want to know. Just more ruined lives put to my account, more souls who should have been enjoying the glorious return of a king to Gondor and instead had been submerged in the sweeping tide of misery that flowed outward from Mordor.

"I have had my time on this earth," Gorendil said, his tone as detached as if he were speaking of someone besides himself. "Far longer than any man should have had. For years uncounted I did Sauron's bidding and thought of nothing else but how to extend his dominion. And now, when perhaps I have more reason to go on living than I have had for ages of men, I find that it is time to come to terms with my ending."

The quiet resignation with which he said those words seemed to twist like a dagger in my heart. Surely he couldn't really mean that. "You don't know that's what's going to happen," I protested. "We may never get back to Mordor, we -- "

"Sarah."

I fell quiet, knotting my fingers in the heavy linen bed sheets as I fought to keep from arguing with him.

Again I felt rather than saw his movement as he rose from his chair and came to sit next to me on the bed. He laid his hand on top of mine, stilling its nervous movements. "You are very young," he said. "Sometimes I forget how young. You haven't even begun to live your life, and you can have no idea how the unending years can cease to be a gift and instead become a torment. I would not give up one moment I have spent with you, but I also know that I cannot expect you to tie yourself to me forever. Better that I should at least go out with some chance of redemption."

At those words I shook my head and gripped his hand, feeling the strength of the fingers that surrounded mine. "So you're going to pull a Sydney Carton on me?" I asked bitterly.

"A what?" His voice in the darkness sounded almost amused.

"He's a character in a book we read my senior year of high school," I said. "Basically, he ends up giving his life for a noble cause." The ending of _A Tale of Two Cities_ had always haunted me; I spent days trying to figure out a way poor Sydney could have survived and gotten the girl. I did tend to have a bad habit of finding the dark characters much more appealing than the good guys. "Right before he's executed in someone else's place, he says, 'It's a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done. It's a far, far better rest I go to, than I have ever known.' Or words to that effect," I added, since I wasn't sure I had gotten the quote exactly right.

"Ah." For a second I felt Gorendil's lips brush against my hair, and I wanted to weep from the quiet tenderness of the gesture. "I don't know whether there is enough grace left in this world to grant me that sort of rest. But at least I can try. I've thought long on this, Sarah, ever since you first told me that you felt we should try to fix what has been so horribly broken. How can one life measure up against all those that will be lost if Sauron continues on his current path?"

It couldn't, of course, and logically I knew that. But somehow logic wanted to take a long vacation when it came to how I felt about Gorendil. "You sound like you're ready to die," I said, my voice sounding raw and broken even to myself. "We don't know that's what will happen."

"No. I have many powers, but the gift of foresight is not one of them. I go forward into this in the dark, not seeing the outcome. Perhaps I may survive, and live to spend many happy years with you in a world we two have restored. But if my death will buy the defeat of the Dark Lord, then I will consider it a fair trade."

I bowed my head. I didn't even realize that I had begun to weep until I felt a tear splash against my hand. What was the point of any of this, then? Why had I come here, and why had I been brought together with Gorendil, if we couldn't remain together? Was some cruel god laughing somewhere at my misery?

"How many other women weep this night?" he asked softly. "How many have lost husbands, fathers, brothers, sons? Why should your pain be counted more worthy of solace than theirs?"

_Because it's mine!_ I wanted to cry out, but even in my anguish I knew that I couldn't possibly be so selfish. Who was I to judge whose loss was the greater?

His hands tightened around mine. I wished I could see his face, but unlike the creatures of Mordor, I wasn't gifted with the ability to see in the dark. "This world has painted me as evil," he went on, and I had to strain to hear the words, his voice was pitched so low. "But that was not always the case. One can fall into Sauron's trap as easily by wanting to do good as desiring to do ill. Power he promised, the power to protect my people, to strengthen my kingdom. Power to save the ones I loved."

"'The road to hell is paved with good intentions,'" I said tonelessly. I could hardly recognize the voice as my own.

That elicited a dry, mirthless laugh. "Indeed. Where did you hear that?"

"Something my mother used to say."

"The people of your world seem to have an adroit turn of phrase," he commented.

_Well, some of them_, I thought. _As long as you stick to the classics._ I shuddered to think what his opinion might be of most of what passed for current entertainment back in my world.

"At any rate, I believed Sauron's lies. I took the Ring of Power he gave me, thinking it would be my servant in helping my people. Instead, it led me only into darkness and slavery. Sauron's will overlaid my own, so that I could not have distinguished his desires from mine. Until now." Gorendil reached out and touched my cheek, his hand cold and strong against my flesh. "You have given me back to myself, Sarah. But if you ask me to go against my conscience in this matter, then you are no better than Sauron."

The words hurt, as I had no doubt he intended them to. But even as I felt the anger flare up in me, I knew he was right. Could I deny him this chance to make restitution? Could I possibly be that selfish?

In another lifetime, another world, possibly. But even in my isolation here I knew very well that matters in Middle Earth were deteriorating at a rapid rate. If Gorendil wished to try and stop that downward spiral, how could I prevent him?

Even in my despair I refused to stop hoping that it wouldn't come to that -- we'd find a way to defeat Sauron, and then once the Dark Lord was vanquished we'd finally have a chance to be together without the shadow of Mordor tainting our relationship. Oh, maybe it was a foolish hope, but how could the possibility of our triumph be any more far-fetched than my actual presence here in Middle Earth in the first place?

"You're right," I said at last. "I just wish it didn't hurt so much."

And after that there wasn't much left to say. He didn't try. Instead he took my face between his hands and kissed me, over and over again. He sank down on top of me, fingers fumbling with the drawstring of my shift, until at last our naked bodies met and joined, and I lost myself in the fierceness of our passion.

If only it could have gone on like that forever.

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Two days later, Saruman was captured.

He was taken somewhere in the wilds of Dunland, not far from the River Greyflood, or so Gorendil told me. The words meant nothing to me; that wasn't a region which had been described much in the books. The only thing that mattered was that he had been found, he and the wretched Wormtongue.

The two men came back to Isengard bound and thrown across the rump of one of those hideous flying beasts the Nazgûl had taken to using. It hadn't been a Ringwraith who found them, though, but instead a scouting party of orcs and some remnant of the wizard's Uruk-hai who had joined the forces of Mordor. I'm sure the irony of that particular detail was lost on Saruman, however.

By the time I saw him he was certainly no longer Saruman the White; Saruman the Grayish Brown, maybe. He looked more like one of the homeless people I'd seen listlessly pushing shopping carts full of junk through the streets of downtown Los Angeles than any high and powerful wizard. His beard was stained and dirty, almost as badly as his tattered robes, and as for Wormtongue -- well, let's just say that if I'd run into him in L.A. I probably would have taken care to cross the street as unobtrusively as possible, if only to get away from the smell.

Both of them were sent sprawling at Gorendil's feet in a spacious room about halfway up the tower; I suppose at one time it had served much the same function as Sauron's audience chamber in Barad Dûr. I took care to stay in the shadows, which was easy enough in the black rock and carved alcoves that made up the circumference of the space, especially since that day I wore one of my black gowns.

Not that Saruman probably would have taken any notice of me -- he was too preoccupied with the looming shape of the Lord of the Nazgûl as Gorendil towered over him. Even though I knew and loved the man hidden inside those ominous black robes, I had to admit that he presented a fearsome sight. And Wormtongue had gone flat on the floor, face pressed downward as if he feared one look from the Nazgûl lord would paralyze him on the spot.

"Welcome back to Isengard, traitor," Gorendil said, voice colder than the black marble on which the two men prostrated themselves. "Long has Sauron sought you, and the length of that search is only exceeded by the strength of his anger."

"Lord of Angmar," Saruman began, and although I could tell that probably at one time his voice had been as beautiful as Tolkien had described it, now it sounded cracked and hoarse. "Think not that I have avoided the Dark Lord's sight. My home was taken from me by those interlopers of Rohan, aided and abetted by the murderous trees which inhabit Fangorn and the traitorous wizard Gandalf the Grey. I fled, thinking only how best I could continue to serve -- "

"Enough," said the Witchking, and he raised a gloved hand. "Think you to deceive me with your lies? The Lord of Mordor knows well enough that you raised an army, not to support his cause, but to further your own ambitions. And when those ambitions were thrown down in ruins, you fled into the night, hoping to find a safe haven far from the reach of the Red Eye. Little did you know then that the Dark Lord would recover the prize he had sought for so long. But now that he has reclaimed his position of Lord of Middle Earth, there is nothing in this world that can escape his scrutiny." Gorendil stepped forward, and Saruman shrank into himself, as if fearing the sort of kick a cruel master might give a dog that cowered at his feet. "Did you not sense it, when the Ring and Sauron became one again? Did you really think that you might still escape?"

For a few seconds Saruman remained silent. Perhaps he was trying to think of the one excuse that might exonerate him. But I was sure even he realized there was nothing he could say that could possibly salvage the situation. Finally he whispered, "Mercy..."

At that Gorendil laughed, and even I shivered. That laughter had very little humor and a great deal of malice in it. "I am not the one you must needs beg for mercy. Try that word on the Dark Lord, and see if he finds any merit in it." He looked past the huddled forms of the two men at his feet to the other Ringwraith who had brought them in and had stood watching during the entire pitiful scene. "These captives will be brought to Mordor to receive their punishment. I will see to it myself."

_No_, I thought, _not that. Let the other Nazgûl take them -- don't force us into this so soon -- _

But then Gorendil looked over at me, as if he had known all along that I had hidden myself in the darkened alcove. The hood shadowed his features, but I caught the sharp steel-gray glint of his eyes. There was no pleading with that look, no bargaining for more time. His were the eyes of a man who had seen the unmistakable hand of destiny at work and knew that he must follow along, come what may.

And I knew that I would go with him, and do what I must. Whatever doom this world had laid upon us, I knew that we would face it together.


	17. The Price of Treachery

Warning -- this is an extremely M-rated chapter for a variety of reasons. You might want to pour yourself a drink first...

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Chapter 17: The Price of Treachery

The return trip to Mordor was probably one of the most terrifying things I have ever experienced. No slow journey by horseback this time -- no, Gorendil hoisted me up in front of him on one of those horrible flying snake-beasts, while Saruman hitched a ride with one of the other Ringwraiths. I don't know what happened to Wormtongue, but I never saw him again after that one time in the audience chamber; maybe Sauron didn't think he was important enough to rate in-person torture at Barad Dûr and had instructed Gorendil to either imprison him or execute him right in Isengard. Whatever the case, Saruman was alone when the Nazgûl who accompanied us threw him across the creature's neck with a rough command to hang on tight, with the implication being that it didn't much matter whether he fell off or not.

Personally, I wasn't sure which was worse: going back to face Sauron, or falling a thousand feet to be smashed up on the ground below. Of course Gorendil held me securely before him, and I knew I was probably safe enough, but I'm not a huge fan of heights. Scratch that -- I hate heights and think that people who indulge in pastimes such as sky diving, bungee jumping, and hang gliding should have their heads examined. So I burrowed my face into Gorendil's chest and hung on for dear life, while the cold air rushed past my head and the rolling plains of Rohan beneath us gradually gave way to the slag heaps of Mordor.

When we finally began to spiral downward toward Barad Dûr, I cracked open one eyelid and risked a quick glance. If possible, the place looked even drearier than when we had left it. That simply might have been because I had spent the last few months in the relatively green and lush environs of Isengard. But the gray-dun wastes that surrounded Sauron's stronghold seemed to have somehow darkened and intensified, the whole place resembling the shattered remains of some bombed-out city...save, of course, for the enormous citadel of the Dark Lord, which lay upon the rocky landscape like the carcass of a prehistoric monster.

The flying snake-beast began to slowly descend, apparently aiming for a high flat-topped tower almost dead in the center of the stronghold. My heart began to hammer away at my breastbone; I didn't know what Gorendil had planned, and somehow I doubted he would tell me even if he wanted to. I'd tried to get something out of him before we left Isengard -- anything -- but he'd only smiled sadly and said that if I knew nothing then Sauron couldn't possibly learn anything from me.

Which, of course, wasn't exactly reassuring.

I'd packed Sting in with the few items that could fit in the one bag Gorendil had said I could bring along, flying snake-beasts apparently not making the best of pack animals. He'd tried once to lift the blade and pulled his hand quickly away as if the little sword had burned him, so I knew that whatever happened, the Nazgûl lord would not be able to use the sword of Gondolin against Sauron. Understandably, this particular setback didn't help to improve my mood.

Ranks of orcs and Haradrim soldiers stood waiting to meet us on the rooftop. I watched our reception nervously, but I couldn't detect any change in the deference with which Gorendil was met by Sauron's soldiers. A group of about fifteen Haradrim surrounded the other Nazgûl and the miserable Saruman and escorted them away from our landing area, but Gorendil took me by the arm and herded me in the other direction, down several flights of stairs, and along a dark corridor. It wasn't until I stood in front of the familiar door with its flanking sconces set with red candles that I realized he had brought me back to the room I had occupied when I first came to Mordor.

"I thought familiar surroundings would be better," he said, and ushered me in.

Nothing seemed to have changed. All the furniture occupied its same positions, and since it was only mid-afternoon, the heavy curtains had been pulled back to let in what little feeble sunlight fell on Barad Dûr. On the table sat a gleaming silver pitcher and matching goblet, along with a bowl of pears and apples -- probably plundered from Gondor.

For some reason just being back in the room where Gorendil first made love to me made me feel a little better. Oh, I knew I was back in dangerous territory, but at least here I had something good to remember, and the fact that the Nazgûl lord had thought to bring me back to this place heartened me a little. Even now, as he plotted against Sauron, he was still thinking of my comfort and safety.

"Shouldn't you have gone with Saruman?" I asked. It worried me a little that he had come here with me directly; the last thing we needed was for Sauron to be questioning Gorendil's motives this early in the game.

"I'll go to him in a few moments," he replied, turning from his inspection of the items on the table and giving me a bleak smile. "Sauron will wish to play with that one for a while before sending him to his doom; my absence should not unduly disturb the Dark Lord, as long as I am there for the end."

"And what will that be?" I asked, unable to keep the quaver out of my voice. Not that I particularly cared what Sauron did to Saruman -- both the book and film versions of the wizard had been nasty sorts, and he probably deserved whatever he was going to get. No, I just worried that whatever happened to him might also happen to us, only ten times worse.

A lift of the shoulders under the enveloping black cloak. "As to that...difficult to say. I've seen Sauron slowly lower people into the Cracks of Doom, listening to them scream as their limbs are burned away. Or he's had them staked out in the courtyard and let the orcs -- "

"All right!" I burst out. "I get the idea."

He gave me an unreadable look. "Would you rather I concealed the truth from you? This is no game, no light undertaking with any true hope of success. We are in the heart of the Dark Lord's domain, and there is little mercy to be found here."

Unable to reply, I just swallowed and nodded feebly. What had sounded like such a fine and noble idea when I was safely away from Mordor now seemed like complete insanity. It's much easier to feel brave and selfless when you're sitting in a comfortable room and contemplating how to change the world. But now -- I raised my chin and looked directly at Gorendil, at the fine proud features, the deep lines that etched the corners of his eyes and framed his mouth. He showed no sign of fear or uncertainty -- not that I had expected him to.

"I love you," I said simply.

The words seemed to drop into the stillness between Gorendil and me like stones falling into a deep pool. I could almost feel the ripples spreading out around us, moving through the dark air that surrounded Barad Dûr.

He stepped forward then, lifting my face toward his, and kissed me. The feel of his lips against mine gave me more courage than any mere words of his could have. "I love you," he murmured after we parted. "Dearest Sarah." And he lifted a hand to touch my hair before saying, "I must go. After I have left, hide it. I don't want to know where it is, but make sure it is safe."

I nodded, then watched silently as he left the room. I didn't bother to ask him what "it" was.

After he had gone I hurried over to my pack, rooted through the clothing there, and withdrew Sting, still wrapped in one of my spare chemises. Lifting it out, I gave the room a hurried glance. "Hide it," Gorendil had told me, but where? The wardrobe of course was far too obvious. Under the bed? Still too easy to find. But as I stared at the bed, a thought came to me. Maybe not under the bed, but possibly _in_ it.

Clutching the awkward bundled form of the sword, I went to the alcove that held the bed and lifted up a corner of the mattress. It was bulky piece stuffed with feathers, and beneath it was an intricate criss-crossed network of heavy leather straps. The mattress felt heavy enough that I was fairly certain it didn't get moved around much, and in fact I had to strain to get the thing lifted far enough off its support structure that I could slide Sting in. Then with a sigh of relief I let the mattress fall into place, hurriedly tucked the sheets back in, and straightened the coverlet so that no one could see what I had been up to.

Once I had finished that particular task, though, I found myself pacing about the chamber, trying to expel some of the nervous energy that had built up in me. Compared to the last time I had been here, Barad Dûr seemed oddly quiet. Of course, a few months ago Sauron had been preparing to go to war, whereas now Middle Earth already lay under this thumb, with the majority of his armies deployed in lands far from Mordor.

Although I was fairly certain I really didn't want to witness Saruman's punishment firsthand, this waiting around didn't help much, either. I went to the window and looked out, noting the familiar arrangement of rooftops and towers, but of course besides that there really wasn't much to see. Far below in the courtyard some troops moved back and forth as apparently a changing of the guard took place, and off in the distance I could see a slow wagon train approaching the Dark Lord's citadel, but otherwise the place was positively morgue-like.

I didn't know whether that was a good sign or not. My stomach told me that trying to eat anything probably wasn't a very good idea, but I poured some water from the pitcher and forced myself to drink it. I had just choked down a few swallows when someone knocked at the door.

Startled, I almost dropped the goblet, but I managed to set it down on the table before my trembling fingers could cause any real damage. I didn't think Gorendil would have knocked, and at any rate he had only been gone for probably half an hour or so, but my heart still beat crazily as I went to the door and opened it. But instead of the Lord of the Nazgûl I looked on an unfamiliar man, tall and thin with a pale, evil-looking face that seemed to have had all the blood drawn from it. He would have made a good vampire.

"I am the Mouth of Sauron," he said. "His Lordship requests your presence in the audience chamber."

Vaguely I recalled someone with that peculiar title from the books, and from what I could remember he hadn't been a very pleasant character; I supposed I was lucky that our paths hadn't crossed before this. I also wondered why Gorendil hadn't come to fetch me, but possibly Sauron had required that he stay in the audience chamber and had instead sent his pasty-faced errand boy.

Hoping that he hadn't caught my flustered pause, I replied, "Of course." Part of me wished I'd taken the time to change out of my rumpled wool gown, but it was too late now, and of course it didn't really matter what I looked like at this point. I just hoped that Sauron simply desired my presence because he wanted more witnesses for his punishment of Saruman.

So I quietly followed the Mouth of Sauron down the corridor and through all the winding, torturous hallways of the Dark Lord's stronghold. Again, it seemed far less crowded than it had previously, although one couldn't call the place deserted by any stretch of the imagination.

Finally we came to the enormous double doors that served as the entryway to Sauron's audience chamber. The Mouth (although for someone with that title he had been very silent the whole time) pushed open the doors, and I followed him reluctantly, not sure what I was going to see.

Again, nothing here seemed to have changed. The same tall buttressed ceilings met my gaze, and the same narrow arches windows that let in a sullen blood-tinged light marched down the one wall. I saw Gorendil standing off to one side and murmured a silent prayer. He was safe still, at least.

I darted a quick glance in his direction, but I saw no answering look, no acknowledgment of my presence. His entire being seemed to be concentrated on the man who stood on the dais.

Of course he wasn't really a man, but I didn't know how else to think of Sauron. He turned his head to watch me slowly approach him, even as the Mouth slunk off and took his place on the lowest step of the dais. For a second those inhuman silvery eyes rested on me, and then the corners of Sauron's mouth turned up in a cold smile.

"Your lovely consort has joined us, my lord of Angmar," he said. "How good of you to bring her with you back to Mordor; I have often thought that I would like further conversation with her."

Gorendil inclined his head slightly, and I, not knowing what else to do, managed a not-entirely-clumsy curtsey.

"I thought perhaps you would like to witness the fate of this traitor," Sauron went on, and for the first time I noticed the bundle of dirty-white rags that lay at his feet. Then I realized with some horror that the bundle of rags appeared to be breathing...barely. Saruman.

A tickle of freezing cold worked its way up my spine. Was it just my fevered imagination, or had Sauron placed a particular emphasis on the word _traitor_?

"Well, actually, I'm not really into that sort of thing -- " I began, then broke off as the Dark Lord's perfect brow began to knit itself into a frown. My stomach flip-flopped, and I said hastily, "Um...sure. Sounds like fun."

"Educational, at the very least." He made a barely perceptible hand gesture, and two of the huge orc guards who had been standing back in the shadows moved forward and hauled the unfortunate wizard upward.

"Mercy!" he shrieked. "I can still serve, my lord -- "

A low chuckle escaped Sauron's lips. "The only way you can serve, dog, is to provide me with a few moments of entertainment. To the Sammath Naur with him!"

The orc guards dragged Saruman off the dais and toward a doorway behind it, a doorway I hadn't previously noticed. It opened into a long, dark corridor. About half the troops who had stood sentinel in the audience chamber followed after them, disappearing into the gloom.

"My lord of Angmar," Sauron said, turning toward Gorendil. "Perhaps you should offer the lady your arm. The way into the Sammath Naur can be treacherous."

And again it could have just been my paranoia working overtime, but somehow it seemed as if the Dark Lord lingered on the word _treacherous_.

If Gorendil had caught the inflection, he showed no sign of it. Instead, he stepped forward and took my hand, waiting silently for the Dark Lord to proceed ahead of us down the unlit hallway. The Lord of the Nazgûl said nothing, but I could feel his fingers give mine a gentle squeeze, as if trying to pass along some wordless encouragement. Then we followed Sauron through the darkness, until the hallway ahead began to lighten slightly, with a frightening orange-red glow. The air around me slowly grew warmer, and I felt the perspiration begin to trickle down my back. The words _Sammath Naur_ had meant nothing to me, but I thought I knew where we were headed.

Light and heat exploded around us as we came to the heart of Mount Doom, to a long promontory of black basalt that thrust like an accusing finger out into the lava flows that moved far beneath us, coiled fiery dragons of gold and orange and red. The heat was intense; growing up in Southern California, I'd thought I was used to hot temperatures, but it had to have been well over a hundred degrees in there, and my black wool gown felt positively suffocating, even though it had an open neckline.

The two orcs who were guarding Saruman stood toward the center of the promontory, gripping the wizard tightly by his arms. Sauron moved toward them, his perfect features reflecting no discomfort in the enervating heat. I couldn't even see a gleam of perspiration on his brow. Likewise, Gorendil seemed unaffected by the conditions inside Mount Doom, but the other men and the orcs already were dripping with sweat. They must have stunk, but any odor coming off their bodies was overwhelmed by the scent of sulfur, ash, and overheated rock that surrounded us.

Saruman had fallen silent; I suppose he had finally decided that any further pleas would be useless. His face looked sunken and hollow under its sheen of sweat, and I imagined he must be suffering in the remnants of his heavy once-white robes...but probably not suffering as much as he was going to in the next few minutes.

I felt Gorendil gently release my hand, and I looked up at him. Of course he could say nothing to me, but I thought I saw his jaw tense slightly. Not a good sign -- usually that sort of movement indicated he was steeling himself to do something. And I thought I had a good idea what. After all, we stood at the Cracks of Doom, the one place in Middle Earth where the Ring could be destroyed. Certainly he would get no better chance than this.

As if in answer to my thoughts, I saw Gorendil's hand move slowly to rest on the hilt of the sword he wore at his belt. Anyone watching probably wouldn't have even made note of it, and even if they had, it wasn't that strange a gesture for someone who was watching a condemned prisoner about to meet his fate.

"Saruman," said the Dark Lord with that peculiar smile of his, both beautiful and numbingly evil at the same time, "as one who has betrayed Mordor, you shall meet your doom here, in the heart of my kingdom. Perhaps the fires of Mount Orodruin will cleanse the treachery from your soul." He gave the slightest of nods toward the two orcs who held the wizard.

Without a word they pulled Saruman over toward the edge of the promontory. I could see the super-heated air that rose from the chasm whipping at his soiled robes, seconds before they pushed him over the edge.

A high-pitched shriek arose from the wizard, a shriek that was abruptly cut off as apparently he hit the lava that lay below. I thanked God that I couldn't see what had actually happened to him -- just hearing that scream was bad enough. Sauron took a few steps toward the edge, as if he were about to look over into the chasm to confirm the wizard's demise.

Perhaps that was the signal Gorendil had been waiting for. At any rate, he moved away from me, so swiftly that at first I didn't even realize what he was doing. I wanted to scream at him to stop, but I knew that I must keep silent, that I must allow him the element of surprise.

His sword whipped out of its scabbard, bursting into flame as he raised it to strike the Dark Lord. Sauron's back was turned; for a moment it seemed as if Gorendil were going to succeed, that his attack had happened with such lightning speed it had taken the Dark Lord unawares.

But I should have known better. Moving in a blur of black robes, Sauron lifted a sword that must have been hidden in the folds of his clothing. Unlike Gorendil's blade, which blazed with fire to rival the lava that roiled below the edge of the promontory, Sauron's sword was black, dull, seeming somehow to draw light into it instead of reflecting it. And when the two blades met, Gorendil's burst apart into fragments of molten metal.

I think I screamed then -- not that it mattered. To his credit, Gorendil did not let the loss of his blade stop him. He drove toward the Dark Lord, possibly intending to push him into the chasm with the sheer force of his attack. But although Gorendil was tall and strong and the survivor of more hand-to-hand combat than I could possibly imagine, he still was no match for Sauron. Swiftly and brutally the Dark Lord knocked the Lord of the Nazgûl to the ground and held him there, the point of that frightening dead-star blade held at his throat.

"Fool," said Sauron. "Did you not think that I would know every plot you devised, every treacherous thought that went through your mind? Were you so blinded by love that you actually thought you could challenge me? You are weak, Angmar, a blade that has broken in my hand."

Gorendil said nothing. His face remained bleak and still, his cold gray eyes fixed on Sauron's gloating features. I wanted to rush to him, to help him, but if the Witchking couldn't prevail against the Lord of Mordor, what on earth could I do? I was unarmed, defenseless. So I looked on, the breath locking in my throat, my whole body somehow paralyzed.

"I think I will take that back now," Sauron went on, and he reached down and pulled the glove from Gorendil's right hand, then wrapped his long pale fingers around the heavy dull-silver ring the Witchking wore on his middle finger. I'd seen it on his hand all this time, of course, and had guessed what it was -- the symbol of his servitude to the Dark Lord. Gorendil shuddered as the ring was removed from his hand, and Sauron added, "You have proven yourself unworthy of it." And with those words he drove the point of his blade through my lover's throat.

I wish I could have fainted, or shut my eyes. But I saw it all -- the sudden convulsive movement of Gorendil's body, the dark blood that welled up from the deadly wound. Suddenly I found I could move again, and I ran forward, falling to my knees at Gorendil's side. Rational speech seemed to have deserted me; I could only make an incoherent moaning sound as I reached out to him and tried to gather him up in my arms.

The heavy black lashes lifted, and I saw him try to focus on my face. "So...sorry..."

"Don't," I managed to gasp. "It's all right -- you don't have to -- "

"Sarah." The effort he was putting forth to keep his eyes open and fixed on me was almost tangible. I couldn't begin to imagine the amount of pain he must be in. "I'm happy -- happy I lived long enough to love you."

"I love you," I whispered. "Don't leave me. Please -- "

"Love -- " he began. His lips moved slightly, but no sound came out. I could feel the life leave his body, feel the sudden limpness of his form against me as he sagged, even as his blood soaked into the front of my gown.

And then he was gone. No terrible time-lapse image of his corpse turning to dust, no instantaneous aging to make up for all the unnatural years he had lived. I looked down at the slack features of the man I had loved, and then suddenly I held nothing -- nothing but a bundle of dark clothing that had once covered his body.

For a few seconds I just continued to kneel there, holding the suddenly empty cloak and robes. An odd sound fell on my pounding ears, a sound I couldn't even process at first. Then my brain seemed to finally start firing again, and I realized what it was. Laughter. Sauron stood over me, Gorendil's blood still gleaming on his sword, and laughed at me.

I'd read about people seeing red with rage, but up until that moment I had no idea what that really meant. A wash of blood color distorted my vision, and I leaped to my feet, discarding the Nazgûl lord's empty garments. "You bastard!" I screamed, and I pounded against Sauron's chest, flailing against him in unseeing fury.

But I might as well have been hammering my fists against the basalt outcropping on which we stood. Several blows landed, but after that I felt his burning hands enclose my wrists in grips of iron, holding me away from him. Cold silver eyes watched me for a moment, and then he gave me that familiar horrible smile.

"Careful, my dear," he said. "You might do yourself an injury."

"What do I care?" I spat back, writhing in a futile attempt to wrest myself from his grasp. What difference did it make what happened to me, now that Gorendil was dead?

Something in his eyes shifted then, and the rage that had overcome me began to transform into a cold shiver of fear. Ignoring me for a second, he said over his shoulder to the guards who had stood watching silently this whole time, "Leave us."

I never thought I'd be sorry to see a group of orcs and Haradrim depart the scene, but somehow their sudden exit filled me with misgiving.

"Better," Sauron commented, still with that unholy smile distorting his perfect mouth. "I am curious, my dear -- what was it about you that so appealed to my lord of Angmar that he would seek to betray me, I who had been his master for ages of men?"

"Nothing you would understand, you son of a bitch," I replied, wishing I could claw at his face, rip that smug smile off his mouth, dig my nails into those too-bright silver-gray eyes. "How could a monster like you know anything about love?"

For a few seconds he remained silent, and then one of his eyebrows lifted slightly. "It is true that I know little of love," he said. "But I am beginning to learn something of desire."

And with that he pulled me toward him, pressing his mouth against mine. His lips seemed to burn my flesh, and I opened my mouth to cry out, but instead his tongue found its way in there, choking me, cutting off air. Blackness swirled at the edges of my vision, but I fought against it, fought against him, struggling in his grasp, feeling the blood start on my lip where his teeth caught me.

But if even Gorendil couldn't overcome the strength of the Dark Lord, I certainly had no hope of doing so. We sank to the ground, the immense weight of him pressing against me, forcing the air from my lungs. I felt his hands ripping at my clothing, hot against my bare. And then I felt him pound into me, an overwhelming tearing pain at the center of my body, for of course his member was just as oversized as the rest of him. I closed my eyes, praying it would end, hoping that I would die then and there, so that it would finally all be over, yet knowing somehow that I would be denied even that release.

I didn't scream. What's the point of screaming, when you know there's no one to come and save you?


	18. The Price of Courage

I know these updates are coming fast, but there's only one more chapter to go after this, and I tend to write fast when the end is in sight. Thank you to everyone for your wonderful reviews -- I know the last chapter was a bit of a doozy, so thanks for not coming after me with pitchforks!

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Chapter 18: The Price of Courage

I awoke to semi-darkness, and a sense of furtive movement somewhere beyond the heavy curtains that blocked off the alcove where I lay. Then I heard a door shut, and I sat bolt upright in bed, heart pounding, certain that _he_ had returned. But then an uneasy silence fell, one in which I could hear nothing but my short, frightened breaths. After a few seconds of pure terror I realized that the sound of the door shutting must have been from someone leaving my chamber, not entering it.

As my heart rate began to ease toward something resembling normal, I realized that every muscle in my body ached, as if it had been subjected to relentless abuse. Which it had, I thought, feeling the soreness between my legs, the throbbing of my inner thighs. Not wanting to look, but knowing I must, I pushed aside the bedcovers and looked down at the tattered remnants of my gown and the bruised flesh of my legs, which were spattered with blood and other substances I didn't dare name.

The nausea rose up in me then, and despite protesting muscles and bone-deep exhaustion, I pushed myself out of bed and ran for the chamber pot, retching up what little had been in my stomach. I knelt there on the floor for a long time, my head spinning, the convulsions racking my abused body over and over again, until there was nothing left to vomit up. Shaking, I staggered to my feet and limped out into the main section of the room, where I saw more food and drink placed on the table, as well as a bathtub of fresh water set before the fire. That must have been the sound I heard earlier -- Nurelin or some other servant coming to leave the bath and the food.

The mere thought of eating anything was enough to raise the bile in my throat once more, but I went to the table and poured myself a goblet of water, then drank it slowly, feeling it burn against my raw throat. My stomach gurgled ominously, but after a few more sips it seemed as if the water was going to stay down.

And after that I threw off the ragged remains of my gown and sank into the tub, feeling the warm water begin to soothe away some of the hurts my body had taken. I scrubbed away, over and over again, as if by compulsively dragging the soap across my flesh I could somehow cleanse myself of the taint of Sauron's touch. Memory began to return -- how he had taken me over and over, until my assaulted brain and body had finally fallen into unconsciousness in an attempt to keep me from going utterly mad.

And Gorendil --

But I couldn't let myself think about that. If I did, I knew I would certainly go insane from the pain of it. At least I had been able to hold him at the end. At least my face had been the last thing he had seen before he finally relinquished his hold on that long, long life. At least I'd been able to tell him I loved him one final time.

I wished I could have died with him. But I hadn't. And since I was now utterly alone here, I couldn't give in to the despair. I couldn't give in to anything, except the overwhelming need for revenge.

After the bathwater had cooled to the point where it was useless to remain in the tub any longer, I dragged myself out and dried off, then pulled on one of the gowns I found in the wardrobe. Someone had unpacked my belongings and hung up the few dresses I had brought with me, and I worked at buttoning up the gown with numb fingers, not caring which one it was. All that mattered was that I was decently clothed once again. My snarled hair gave me some trouble, but I forced a comb through it with little regard for how much I might be yanking out. I had more important things to worry about.

After I had finished with my hair, I went once more to the bed and lifted a corner of the mattress, fearing that somehow Sting had been discovered and removed from its hiding place. But the little sword still rested there in its wrapping of my spare chemise, and I set the mattress back down with as much of a feeling of relief as I could muster. At least I still had that. What I would do with it, and how I could possibly use it against Sauron were two entirely separate matters, but its presence gave me a little hope.

For I knew I had to find a way to destroy Sauron and the Ring, no matter what else happened. My own fate concerned me very little by that point -- the Dark Lord had taken Gorendil from me, and then used me in a way I had not thought him capable of. I suppose that was stupid blindness on my part; if I could see the Lord of the Nazgûl, and interact with him as with any other mortal man, then why not Sauron? He had always seemed to me, in the books and films at least, a strangely sexless creature, but obviously that was not the case here.

Odd clarity sometimes comes to me in times of stress, and I thought I understood why he had done it. Maybe he hadn't been physically capable for thousands of years -- I couldn't quite figure out the mechanics of my being able to see him and Gorendil -- or the rest of the Ringwraiths, for that matter -- as they once had been, and that probably had something to do with it. But I was fairly sure it went way beyond that. He'd seen what Gorendil and I had together, and he hated it. He hated the fact that we had taken what had probably been meant as a cruel joke on his part and instead turned it into a deep and lasting affection. So of course he had to figure out a way to destroy it, or at least taint it. And forcing himself on me had likely been the most logical -- in his twisted mind -- way to do that very thing. If he got his rocks off in the process, well, all the better, I supposed.

That thought made my stomach churn again, but I knew I couldn't spend the rest of my life weeping and feeling wretched. It was horrible, but women survived rape every day and refused to let it defeat them. I had to take my cue those survivors and take back what power I had. Which was little enough, unfortunately. I might have been left alone in my comfortable room for now, but that meant nothing. I knew I was being hopelessly naïve if I thought that his assault on me was an isolated incident. No doubt it would amuse him to take me over and over again, to try and break me until nothing remained but a gibbering idiot.

I wouldn't give him the satisfaction. I had to live and hang on to my sanity long enough to kill him. After that, I'd welcome the darkness. Maybe I'd be able to find Gorendil on the other side of death. And if not, at least I wouldn't have to suffer Sauron any longer, and I could die knowing that I'd freed Middle Earth from his tyranny.

Feeling stronger now that I had at least decided on a course of action, I went back to the table and forced myself to take a few bites of the bread and cheese that had been left there for me. Once or twice I really did feel as if I were going to get sick again, but I just stopped eating, made myself pull in a few deep breaths, and then went on. I needed to keep my energy up. And if I concentrated on doing simple things like cutting off another piece of bread or peeling an apple, then I didn't have to think about how the absence of Gorendil felt like a gaping hole in my world, or how I kept expecting to see him every time I turned around or lifted my eyes from the food in front of me. I'd never lost anyone close to me before; my relatives all still lived, and I'd never had a friend killed in a car accident or lost to cancer or anything like that. So I had no way of knowing whether this numbness was normal. I supposed I should be grateful for it. Otherwise, my grief could have overcome me to the point where I wouldn't be able to act against Sauron.

Time passed. I had no idea how long -- I was concentrating on not thinking about very much at all. I just let the food bring some strength back to my battered body and watched as the fire burned lower and lower. Idly I wondered whether I should get up to try and stir some life back into it, but that seemed like too much of an effort.

Then the door opened, and _he_ came in. Of course he wouldn't bother to knock.

He paused a few feet away and watched me carefully. I'm not sure what he expected -- maybe for me to start screaming at him, or possibly to still be lying in bed, a listless used-up mess.

Instead I looked back at him, keeping my face blank. Then I turned away and picked up another slice of apple, biting off one end and staring out the window.

"You seem -- recovered," he said at last. If I'd been capable of feeling anything at that point, I suppose I might have been amused by the hesitation in his voice. At least it seemed as if I had put him off his stride a little.

I lifted my shoulders.

At that he closed the space between us. I felt his hand, heavy and hot even through the silk of my gown as he grasped me by the shoulder and lifted me from my chair, then turned me around to face him. "No one remains sitting in the Dark Lord's presence," he rasped.

"You didn't seem to mind me _lying_ in your presence yesterday," I retorted.

Some of the anger smoothed itself away from the eerily symmetrical features, and he smiled. "No, I did not mind that at all." His hand shifted, moving from my shoulder to encircle half my neck. I wondered if I would have reddish marks on my throat to mark the place where his fingers had touched me.

Since I had already mentally prepared myself for this, I did not find myself too surprised when he bent toward me, placing his mouth on mine, forcing my body against his once more. I didn't bother to fight him; all that would earn me would be more bruises. Besides, the beginnings of a plan had begun to flutter in the back of my mind, a plan that would depend on him thinking that I had submitted completely to him. After all, what better way to destroy the Dark Lord than to use his own arrogance against him?

"You do not struggle," he murmured, once he had finally pulled his mouth from mine.

"No," I said, and made myself look up at him with as guileless a gaze as I could manage. "What would be the point...unless you like it that way?"

For a second Sauron looked almost startled, and then one arched eyebrow lifted, as if he were considering the full meaning of my words. "Let me try it this way for now," he said, and kissed me again, his tongue exploring my mouth as I tried desperately not to gag.

_Just let him_, I thought. _He's already done his worst anyway. You can't let him see how much you hate him..._

Whether it was my superior play-acting skills or his own overblown ego, the Dark Lord didn't seem to notice any reticence on my part. I could feel his breathing quicken, and when he began to struggle with the buttons on my gown I said softly, "Let me do that. I don't need another dress ruined."

He watched with a gloating smile as I undid the fastening on my gown and let the silk masses of it slither down to the floor, then untied the drawstring at the neckline of my chemise and pulled it over my head. That smile didn't alter when I stepped toward him, not until he buried his face between my breasts and pulled me against him. His mouth was hot against my flesh, and I shut my eyes, not wanting to see his sleek black head pressed up against my body instead of Gorendil's shaggy gray-streaked dark hair. _Forgive me_, I thought. _But I'm doing this for us, for our dream of a free Middle Earth --_

That thought was all I had to sustain me through everything that followed. It was less violent than our intercourse of the day before, but still painful; my body hadn't recovered from its first bout with Sauron, but I gritted my teeth and let him do what he wanted.

When he had finally finished and his seed splattered inside me, it felt like the fires of Mount Doom. I cried out at the very end, but he smiled, no doubt thinking it was from pleasure, not exquisite agony and unendurable horror.

* * *

This went on for some time. I began to lose count of the days...I only knew that my nights were consumed by him, by the will to dominate that led him back to my chamber over and over again. Oh, I didn't pretend to succumb completely, not at first. That would have raised his suspicions. There were times when I would reply to him sharply or at least put up some token protest, but the end result was always the same -- we would end up in my bed together, or his. Yes, he had a bedchamber attached to his own private rooms, and he summoned me there many times as well, no doubt taking pleasure in the fact that everyone in Barad Dûr knew what was going on between us. Once he even pulled me down on top of him as he sat on his throne in the audience chamber, but thankfully no one else was around to see my humiliation. 

But gradually, so gradually that he didn't seem to notice, I began to soften my attitude toward him. By that time it was no longer physically painful to take him inside me, and as for the rest, well, as my grandmother has been known to say, a body can get used to anything, even being hanged. I would close my eyes and think of Gorendil when Sauron was with me, and afterward, when he had left me alone in bed, I would think of everyone who deserved a chance to live the life they should have had -- Eowyn and Faramir, Arwen and Aragorn, the people of Rohan and Gondor and the Shire and beyond. Sometimes I cried. But never for long, since I didn't want any betraying reddened eyes or puffy features to reveal to Sauron that I wasn't quite as happy with the situation as he thought I was.

Thank God his mind-reading abilities or psychic powers or whatever you want to call them didn't seem to extend to me. I supposed with Gorendil and the other Ringwraiths it had everything to do with the bond Sauron had created by giving them the Rings of Power. But I could smile at him while thinking murder and feign ecstasy while lying in his arms, and he was none the wiser. His complete inexperience in matters of the heart helped me here, because I truly think he had no conception of the depth of my feelings for Gorendil. In his mind, I had merely transferred my affections to a far more worthy subject. And of course I did nothing to disabuse him of that notion.

My goal was to get him back to the Sammath Naur, back to the heart of Mount Doom, where I could attempt to cut the Ring from his finger and make an end to this farce. How I was supposed to accomplish that, I wasn't really sure. As far as getting Sting there, I'd already decided that the only way to manage that was to hide the blade under my bulky skirts -- I'd tried strapping it to my thigh with an extra belt and discovered that it really didn't show at all. Of course, getting it out from under my skirts might be somewhat difficult, but I'd cross that bridge when I came to it. The important thing was to get Sauron back to the place where the Ring could be destroyed.

The opportunity presented itself, the way so many things do, purely by chance. I was in Sauron's private suite; we'd already had sex -- I won't dignify it by calling it "making love" -- and I was about to leave when he stopped me by holding up a thick silver ring between his thumb and forefinger. I knew it, of course. Gorendil's ring.

"What should I do with this, do you think?" the Dark Lord asked.

I swallowed, then said, "I didn't know you still had it."

"I had thought about giving it to someone else...but as its previous owner betrayed me, I felt perhaps that would not be wise." The silvery eyes glinted up at me; he was lying on the bed, the embroidered counterpane only covering enough of him for modesty's sake.

My fingers paused on the top button of my bodice. "Why not destroy it?" I hoped my voice didn't sound _too_ casual. "Cast it back into the fires from which it was made."

Turning the ring over between his long, elegant fingers, Sauron appeared to consider my proposal. "Perhaps...yes, that would be a fitting end."

I gave a small nod, but said nothing. I knew I couldn't suggest that I should be present -- that idea had to come from the Dark Lord.

"And I would like you to watch," he said, and I felt a mixture of relief and dread rise up in me. "To see that everything of his on this earth has ended."

"If you wish," I said meekly.

"I do wish." He pushed the covers aside and reached for his discarded robe. "Let us go."

"Now?" My voice squeaked a little on the syllable. That was no good -- I didn't dare do anything to raise his suspicions, but on the other hand I had to have Sting with me when we went into the Chambers of Fire, or all this would have been for nothing.

"What better time?"

I'd long since learned that Sauron pulled his tunic on one sleeve at a time, just like everybody else, but it was still a little disconcerting to hear his voice coming out of the folds of his clothing as he drew it on over his head. "Well, it's -- it's just that it's so warm in there," I said. "And I have this heavy velvet gown on. Do you mind if I change first?"

The smile he gave me was almost indulgent. "If you must."

Thank God. "Great," I said, and with a sudden impulse leaned forward and kissed him fully on the mouth. _And I sincerely hope that's the last time I ever have to do that_, I thought. "I'll just be a few minutes."

By this time I had learned enough of Barad Dûr that I was able to get from Sauron's chambers to my own without too much difficulty. I hurried down the hallway and up the winding staircase, on into my room, where I quickly undid the buttons I had just fastened, located a lighter-weight silk gown, and pulled it on. Then I reached under the mattress, drew out Sting, and strapped it to my leg. I looked down at the fall of fabric against my lower half with a critical eye, but the linen of my chemise and the voluminous folds of the gored skirt did a good job of hiding the odd bulk of the sword.

My heart was hammering in my chest, but strangely enough, I felt calm and clear-headed. Somehow it was a relief to have finally come to this point. Either I would succeed, or I would fail, and Sauron would most likely kill me in the attempt. At least, I hoped that was what would happen. The worst-case scenario would be to try and fail and yet somehow live, but I couldn't let my mind dwell on that possibility.

I smoothed my hair with my hands and took a couple of deep breaths, but I knew I didn't dare linger anymore. Sauron was willing to indulge me up to a point -- I think it amused him to give in to my small whims, since he knew he could change his mind at any time -- but if I were gone too long he might begin to get suspicious.

No one got in my way on my return to Sauron's chambers, of course. The Dark Lord's minions knew better than to interfere with the young woman who somehow inexplicably had gained his favor, although I caught a few furtive glances in my direction as I rushed through the corridors, my silvery gown an incongruous flicker of light in the dark fortress. Part of me wanted to warn the people I saw, the soldiers and slaves and other denizens of Barad Dûr. If I succeeded, there was a very good chance all of them could be killed. But obviously I couldn't say anything, or my plan would fail before I'd had even a chance to implement it. No, they would just be more lives on my conscience, but at that point I considered them a necessary sacrifice. After all, they were working for the bad guys. And if "I was just following orders" didn't cut it at Nuremberg, I wasn't going to let that argument sway me here, either.

Sauron was waiting for me in the main living space of his chambers; I noticed a half-filled goblet of wine in his hand. Although I'd never seen him actually eat anything, he did drink from time to time, usually as a prelude to sex. But that didn't seem to be his intention now, thank God -- he set the goblet down on the table as soon as I entered the room.

"Ready?" he asked, and I was relieved to still hear that half-amused note in his voice.

"Yes," I said. _As ready as I'll ever be..._

He offered me his arm, and I took it with a hand that looked much steadier than it felt. From his quarters a narrow hallway extended, snaking back through the fortress. I'd never gone this way before, but I knew it had to be yet another passage that led to Mount Doom.

As it turned out, the smallish corridor connected with the one that branched off from the audience chamber, the one we had taken that horrible day when Sauron disposed of Saruman and murdered Gorendil before my eyes. Once again I felt the heat rise around me, the hallway's walls of rough-hewn stone turning orange and blood-color the closer we got to the Chambers of Fire.

Then, of course, we had been accompanied by a group of guards, whereas now only Sauron and I stood on the black finger of rock that stuck out into the lava flows, but still an odd feeling of _dèja vu_ seemed to overtake me. _Probably just the overwhelming sense of impending doom_, I thought.

We stopped on the very edge of the chasm. The Dark Lord drew out Gorendil's silver ring from some hidden pocket in his robes and held it up for a moment, its cool gray gleam contrasting with the heat and flame-colored light all around us. He glanced in my direction for the briefest second, as if to make sure I was watching, and then tossed the ring into the fire.

If I'd been expecting some sort of fireworks show, I would have been gravely disappointed. Nothing happened, except that the ring floated on top of the glowing lava for a few seconds, then spread out like mercury from a broken thermometer and finally disappeared altogether.

"So much for the erstwhile King of Angmar," Sauron sneered, and it took every ounce of will I possessed not to attack him then. But I still had to get that sword unfastened from my leg somehow; I was just lucky that the Dark Lord apparently hadn't noticed my somewhat stiff-legged gait.

His silver-pale eyes sought mine, and I looked back at him, then made myself smile slightly. A sudden thought had just struck me...

"It was here that we first...well, you know," I said. I couldn't bring myself to say _made love_, but he got the implication, for he smiled slightly. "I thought it might be interesting to do it here again."

"Here."

"Not interested?" I asked, forcing myself to keep my tone light. My fingers brushed against the top button of my gown, and paused there.

"I did not say that." A gleam came and went in those silvery eyes, a gleam I knew all too well.

_Just goes to show that even Dark Lords think with their dicks_, I thought, and turned slightly away from him, bending over as if fussing with the ties on my shoes. Instead, I reached up with trembling fingers to undo the buckle that held Sting tightly against my leg and slid it out from under my gown, the hilt sliding into my sweaty palm as if it had been made for that very purpose. Knowing that my only hope lay in speed and surprise, I whirled, and plunged the blade directly into Sauron's stomach.

He let out a roar that half-deafened me and staggered backward a pace, but almost immediately he had recovered himself, grasping my right hand and forcing both it and the blade I held backward. Dark blood flowed from the wound, but it seemed as if I had angered him more than anything else.

"Stupid bitch -- did you really think so puny a weapon would destroy me?" Sauron snarled, his fingers crushing down on my wrist until I was forced to release the Elven blade from suddenly numb fingers. It dropped to the ground with a sharp ringing noise. "Treacherous whore -- " Then he paused, wincing as if the pain registered at last.

I didn't think. My whole being was consumed by hatred, by the desire to destroy. I wanted him to suffer as Gorendil had, as the people of Rohan and Gondor had. I wanted him to know what it was to hurt. I wanted him to get back the slightest measure of what he had inflicted on so many innocent people.

So while he wavered there at the edge of the chasm, one hand pressed against the oily blood that oozed forth from his belly, I lowered my head and ran at him, seeking to use my weight and my anger as my final weapons.

I collided with him in a sickening thud, my neck muscles screaming from the strain. For a few seconds we both teetered there on the edge, the heat from below streaming over us almost as tangible as liquid, even as I heard his booted feet scrabbling to get some purchase. And then finally I felt the brittle rock give way, and we both pitched backward into the chasm.

Liquid fire engulfed us. For a few seconds, before the pain hit, I could still feel his hand grasping my wrist. And then there was nothing but searing agony that went on for an eternity, until blackness surrounded me, and I felt nothing at all but the sensation of falling, falling forever, my body crushed as if into some unimaginable black hole.

I hadn't thought it would take so long to die...


	19. There's No Place Like Home

Note: I'm going to risk the wrath of ff.n and leave a slightly lengthy AN here, since this is the last chapter, and we've come to the end of our journey (for now). Normally I would have waited before posting again so soon, but since this is the last chapter I just decided to plow ahead (plus, I had Anna urging me on!) Again, I want to thank EVERYONE for all their wonderful comments and reviews -- when I began this story I really had no idea what sort of reception it was going to get, so for it to top 200 reviews really means a lot to me. Reviews are the only coin we fanfic writers get for our efforts, so they are very much appreciated. (And if you've lurked through this whole story, I'd also love it if you'd leave a review for this final chapter.) Although I can understand why some of you would want to see additional scenes, or see something of whether the people back in Middle Earth realized the sacrifices Sarah and Gorendil made to restore things to their proper order, since this is Sarah's story I'll probably have to leave that to your fertile imaginations. (Although I might post a little viggie along those lines at some point.) I'm off to get back to my sadly neglected Star Wars fics and continue my Snape fic (so if you're a Harry Potter fan you might want to check that out), but don't worry -- I've been nailed by sequelitis once again, so you won't be left hanging like this indefinitely (although it will probably be a couple of months). Thanks again to everyone -- you have no idea how much your reviews, comments, and suggestions meant to me! —ChristineX

* * *

Chapter 19: There's No Place Like Home

Voices echoed in the darkness, voices with a flat drawl I hadn't heard for several months.

"Oh, my God -- she fainted!"

"Did she really drink that much?"

"Stand back -- she needs air!"

"Where the hell is Mike?"

I opened my eyes, making out the blurred shapes of vaguely familiar people clustered around me. Behind them I thought I could see the flickering of torches. The sharp scent of citronella hit my nostrils, and I sat up with a groan, pressing one hand against my throbbing forehead.

Well, unless heaven looked like Mike's backyard, I guessed I wasn't dead. Once my eyes began to focus I saw Drew Cummings hovering to one side, a bottle of Hornsby's cider dangling from his hand. He looked pale. And behind him hovered a group of other people, mostly friends of Mike's -- I'd tried to get my friend Lisa to come to the party, but she wasn't into dressing up in costume, to say the least, and she had to work anyway. Or, as she put it, "That's my excuse, and I'm sticking to it."

I put a hand down on the closely mown lawn beneath me, trying to reassure myself of its reality, and then said, "I'm all right," even though the backyard and the people in front of me seemed to be bobbing up and down like boats at anchor during a hurricane. A little more loudly, I continued, "Really. I just tripped." And I pointed at the round stepping stone that probably had been the thing that caught my foot in the first place. Thank God I sounded relatively normal. I felt as if I'd been run over by a backhoe.

What the hell was going on, anyway? As far as I could tell, I was right back in Mike's yard, with the party still going full swing -- or mostly, if you didn't count the distraction my little tumble had caused. Although my mind kept telling me I had been gone for months, it looked as if I couldn't have been out of commission for more than a few seconds at the most. After all, I had just sent Drew to fetch that cider for me a minute or so before I fell --

-- before I fell into Middle Earth. _Had_ it all been a hallucination? Gorendil, Sauron, everything? Had I just cracked my head against the low planter that lay only a scant foot from where I had tripped and fallen? I knew the human mind could do unbelievable stuff to itself, but it had all seemed so _real_...

Then I looked down and noticed for the first time the gown I wore. It was a beautiful thing, filmy pale-gray silk shot through with silver threads. A belt of linked silver and moonstones rested around my waist. It was very definitely not the dress I had worn to the party, the replica of Arwen's blue gown that I had slaved over and which had been completely destroyed on my trip to Mordor. No, the dress I was wearing was the same one I had worn when I accompanied Sauron to the Cracks of Doom.

But if I had hallucinated the whole thing, one part of my brain argued, couldn't I also have imagined wearing the blue gown when in fact this silver dress was the one I had worn all along? Never mind the fact that I couldn't seem to recall how I could have possibly afforded a belt as expensive as the one that now encircled my waist. And I wanted it to be real, despite everything horrible that had happened. Who would want to admit that the love of a man like Gorendil might have been nothing but the fevered imaginings of a concussed brain?

"Sarah!" Mike pushed through the crowd and knelt in the grass next to me. "Are you all right?"

Something about his voice seemed a little odd, but at the moment I couldn't really determine exactly what it was that sounded different. Maybe it was just that I'd never heard him sound that worried. "I'm fine," I said. "Really. I just fell, and I think I bumped my head."

"Can you stand?"

I put one hand down in the soft grass and attempted to push myself up, but almost immediately the whole world tilted around me. Gasping, I began to slip backward, but Mike caught me in time, sliding one arm behind my back and keeping me in a more or less upright position. "Guess that's a no," I said shakily.

"Let me," he said, and before I could stop him I felt his other arm slip under my legs as he lifted me up. I'd had no idea he was that strong, but then again, I'd never really had the opportunity to find out before this.

Despite my token protests, he carried me through the backyard and on into the house, where he took me into the spare bedroom -- the house had three bedrooms, one of which was used as an office -- and laid me down on top of the bed. I'd never been in here before, and it didn't look as if Mike had changed much since he inherited the place. The furniture was all dark antiques that looked late Victorian, the wallpaper a semi-fussy stripe above the mahogany wainscoting. But the bed was heavenly; I'd forgotten how good a modern bed with a real mattress and box spring could feel.

"Well, I must look like a complete idiot," I said, after Mike had pushed a second pillow under my neck.

"Don't," he said immediately. "I probably should have put more torches out there -- "

"And I should have practiced walking in long skirts more."

He grinned. "Well, possibly."

Again that air of unreality hit me. Maybe I was still drowning in the lava pit, and this refreshingly ordinary room and the familiar features of my friend were just the last gasps of a brain about to go down into the darkness forever. But that somehow didn't seem right, either.

I stared down at my silvery skirts for a moment, then said, "Mike, if I ask you something, do you promise not to tell me I'm crazy?"

"I suppose that would depend on what you were asking me."

It figured he'd give me an answer like that. Still, I hoped that the length of our friendship would help him to overcome any doubts about my sanity. "What was I wearing when I came to the party tonight?"

For a second he just stared at me. The lighting in the room wasn't very good; only one Tiffany-style lamp on a side table held back the gloom. It was difficult for me to see his expression clearly. He replied, "Um...is this answer supposed to be something different from what you're wearing now? If you're asking for details, I think you've got the wrong guy."

"But _was_ it different?" I asked desperately.

"Geez, Sarah, I don't know." He glanced at my gown, and then back up at me. "I remember something silvery..."

Which didn't help much, because the Arwen dress _had_ had silver sleeves, but the body of it had been the bluish-gray silk velvet. Then again, I was probably asking way too much of Mike. The guy had a mind like a steel trap, but me expecting him to remember all the details of a dress he'd seen for just a few minutes was like him expecting me to explain the theory of relativity.

"Never mind," I said wearily. "I suppose it doesn't really matter."

He looked down at me with some concern. "Are you sure you're all right?"

There it was again...some odd inflection in his voice that came and went so quickly I couldn't really begin to think what it was that sounded off. But I only nodded and replied, "I'll just lie here for a while, and then I should be fine."

"I think you'd better stay," he said. "If you bumped your head, you shouldn't be driving."

"I don't think that's necessary -- "

"Well, I do."

"Wow, Mike, I had no idea you could be so forceful."

For a second he looked almost annoyed, but then the flash of irritation was replaced by concern. "I'd just hate to see you smash your car up on the way home because you got dizzy or something. It's no big deal -- I've got the spare room here, and I'll go see if I can find you a T-shirt or something so you don't have to sleep in that dress."

I wanted to argue with him, but I had to admit to myself that he was just being sensible about the whole situation. Maybe I would have been all right to drive in a bit -- or maybe I wouldn't. The smartest thing to do was to just stay put and see how I felt in the morning. My parents would probably freak out, but --

"OK," I said. "But can you call my parents and let them know I'll be crashing here?"

"Certainly."

_Certainly_, I thought? That didn't sound much like Mike. But he was probably a little on edge, and besides, I was keeping him from his own party. I settled for just saying, "Thanks, Mike."

He nodded, then muttered something about finding me a shirt and left. I watched him go, frowning a little.

As far as I could tell, I really was back home, back in Southern California, and apparently no worse the wear for my fall into Mount Doom...not to mention the weeks of sexual servitude to Sauron that had preceded it. I shivered at the memory, but I told myself I was back in San Marino, back where I was safe. Whatever force had brought me to Middle Earth in the first place had somehow neatly scooped me up and deposited me right where I had started, with no one here comprehending that what to them had only been a minute at the most had been weeks and months for me...weeks and months where it seemed I had lived a whole lifetime.

I closed my eyes, thinking of Gorendil. Maybe he lived, too, somewhere far beyond Middle Earth, in some afterlife I couldn't begin to comprehend. The thought comforted me a little, although I would have given anything to feel his arms around me again, to have his mouth against mine one more time. At least he had died trying to do the right thing. And maybe his death had given me the final bit of strength I needed to confront Sauron once and for all. I knew the Dark Lord couldn't have survived -- of course the Ring had been on his finger when we fell into the Cracks of Doom, and even if somehow his unnatural demigod form had been able to withstand the heat and flame, the Ring would not. And once it melted, Sauron would be no more.

"Sarah?"

I opened my eyes and saw Mike standing by the side of the bed, holding out a faded black T-shirt decorated with an iron-on decal of the Witchking.The irony of it made me want to laugh, but I worried that the laughter might turn a bit hysterical, so I just took the shirt from him and thanked him.

"Guess I'd better get back and check on everyone," Mike said. "If they trash those kegs, I won't get my deposit back."

"Can't have that," I replied.

He gave me a somewhat rueful smile and said, "I'll just close the door behind me. Try to get some rest."

I nodded, and watched as he went out and quietly shut the door. Immediately the sounds of laughter and far-off music were muted; I could still hear them, but I didn't think they were loud enough to keep me from falling asleep.

Moving with care, I sat up, remained still for a few seconds as I waited for the dizziness to pass, then slid to the floor. The little crystal-studded buttons that closed my dress gave me some trouble; my fingers still felt pretty shaky. But eventually I was able to get them all undone, and I pulled off the gown and chemise and draped them over the back of a side chair. My original underwear had long since given up the ghost, but during my brief sojourn in Minas Tirith I'd had the local seamstresses make up some pantalets for me, and it was a pair of those I still wore now. They covered my legs down to the knee, and the T-shirt Mike had loaned me turned out to be fairly oversized, so it reached to mid-thigh. It had to be fairly big on him -- he was tall, but lanky, and I imagined the shirt would billow around his slender form almost as much as it did on me. But it was comfortable and soft, and smelled faintly of whatever fabric softener he had used. That was another thing I'd forgotten -- how _clean_ everything here was, how scrubbed and antiseptic.

I pulled the covers back on the bed and sank down onto the smooth sheets with a sigh. How good that felt, to be finally comfortable after so many weeks of terror and despair, of never knowing when my sleep would be interrupted by Sauron's nocturnal intrusions. The distant clamor of the party might have been nothing more than wave sounds generated by one of those sleep machines people use to block out unwanted noise.

Part of me wanted to stay awake, to try and process everything that had happened. Somehow it seemed almost disrespectful of Gorendil to go straight to sleep as if nothing had happened, as if I hadn't just spent months with a man whom I had come to love in a way I hadn't thought possible. But I was so tired, so achingly weary, that almost the second my head the pillow my eyes closed, and I drowned once more in darkness.

* * *

When I did awake, at first I couldn't remember where I was. A soft ambient glow filtered dimly through the curtains. Then I realized I still lay in Mike's spare bedroom, and the light I saw was merely the filtered illumination from the street lamps outside. It was still dark, but I couldn't tell what time it was. Late, probably, since I no longer heard any sounds from the rest of the house. The party had apparently broken up.

Then I sensed movement in the darkness. Someone sat down on the edge of the bed, and I tensed, whispering, "Who's there?"

Mike's voice. "Just me, Sarah."

For some reason, that didn't reassure me at all. "What are you doing in here?"

"I just thought I'd come check on you. If you've really bumped your head and have a mild concussion, sleeping through the night isn't such a good idea."

That sounded logical enough, but for some reason all my mental alarms were going off. But my voice sounded steady enough as I replied, "I'm fine. I just need to sleep."

"You do sound better." The bed shifted slightly, as if he had moved closer to me.

My eyes had finally adjusted to the dim lighting, and I saw him then. He'd taken off the fancy brocade waistcoat I'd made for him, but he still wore the white linen shirt and dark breeches that finished off his hobbit-inspired costume. His hair was its usual rumpled mess. He looked so completely _Mike_ that I felt my breathing ease a bit. Considering what I'd gone through, a bit of paranoia was probably normal, but I knew couldn't go on like that indefinitely. I'd have to start trusting people again at some point.

"I'll probably be able to help you clean up in the morning," I said. "Really, my head feels much better."

"Good," he replied. Then, before I had a chance to register exactly what he was doing, he leaned over and kissed me.

I lay there, stunned, for about two seconds before I jerked my head away and snapped, "What the hell -- "

He shifted slightly on the bed. "I've wanted to do that for a long time."

Oh, for Christ's sake... I maneuvered myself into a sitting position and demanded, "Are you drunk?"

"Maybe."

The thing was, he didn't actually sound drunk -- no slurring of his words, none of the slow speech I'd heard from other intoxicated people, some of whom sounded as if they'd had to pick through their whole vocabulary before coming up with the next word to string onto a sentence. Then again, I'd never really seen Mike drunk, so how was I supposed to know what he would sound like after he'd had a few too many? Oh, yeah, I'd watched him toss back a few beers when he had a bunch of his friends hanging around, but never more than three at the most, which wasn't enough to get someone Mike's size drunk...at least not drunk to the point where he was apparently willing to throw aside years of friendship and admit that he'd wanted to kiss me for a long time..and then actually do it.

"Look, Mike," I said carefully, "I'm not sure now is the best time to be discussing this. I've got a knock on my head, and you apparently partied for the two of us, so -- "

In reply he bent and buried my mouth under his, stifling my placating words. He did smell of stale beer, but I wasn't going to let him use that as an excuse. I reached up to push him aside, but he neatly grabbed my wrist and forced it back against the pillows.

My irritation began to shift into outright fear. We were alone together in the house, and Mike was acting completely out of his mind. Although I knew for a fact that he never did drugs, still I wondered if he'd taken something, or if someone had maybe slipped him something as a sort of sick joke. The way he was behaving now was so out of character I wasn't sure what to think. What could possibly have happened to set him off like this? We'd been friends since the sixth grade, and although there had been a time or two when I thought he might have shot a wistful gaze in my direction, he'd never said anything, and certainly never acted in any way that couldn't be construed as simple friendship.

Also, to have this happening now, after everything I'd gone through with Sauron, after I had finally thought I was safe, was enough to bring angry tears to my eyes. Hadn't I suffered enough? Who or what had decided that I should be some sort of cosmic punching bag?

My fury stirred me to action, and I pushed on Mike's chest hard enough that he slid back a few inches, dragging the bedcovers with him. "I don't know what the _fuck_ has gotten into you," I burst out, "but you need to get your ass out of this room right now!"

He sat very still, watching me through the semi-darkness. I saw him turn away from me slightly, and the pale glow of the streetlights seemed to catch at the edges of his brown eyes, waking an odd silvery glitter, like foam on a moonlit sea. "And what if I don't?" he asked, and even his voice sounded different, the flat Southern California drawl suddenly rounder, silkily beautiful.

"No," I said, cold terror edging up my spine, squeezing my throat so that the words came out in a tight whisper. "That's not possible -- "

"Isn't it?" he asked, and then bent toward me once again, his lips brushing the flesh of my throat. I could feel the heat of his breath against my skin as he spoke once more. "You see, Sarah, you're not the only one with the power to move between worlds. "

And I let out a low moan of despair as Sauron looked at me through my friend's eyes, then took me and claimed me as his once again...

The End...?


End file.
